


Too Proud To Admit It

by M_E_Lover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Attempted Suicide, Chronic Pain, Depression, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotional Turmoil, Gen, Introspection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Paranoia, Prescription Drug Abuse, Regret, Sad, Suicidal Thoughts, Verbal Abuse, Why Do I Do It?, Yet Another Dark Depressing Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 31,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_E_Lover/pseuds/M_E_Lover
Summary: I'm not really sure how to explain this one. I'll just say that as per my usual fare, Harold is the one on the receiving end of some hard times. He realizes only after it's too late that he's allowed himself to become dependent on alcohol so much so that it endangers the lives of those that he's responsible for and loves. The consequences are hard to swallow and he has come to a terrible decision for rectifying his problem.***The timing of this story is set prior to the team having to abandon the library but after Carter was killed.





	1. - Harold

**Author's Note:**

> As usual I came up with something depressing and sad to write about. I doubt I'll ever know why these type of stories come so naturally to me. It's not like I consciously set out to do them, they appear unbidden.  
> If I had to guess, I'd say that because I have such a love for fictional drama and tragedy it has become an innate part of my psyche. I think I'm ready to admit that I don't think I know how to write anything else and that's really kind of sad. But in this case I believe I can speak to Harold's predicament with some personal experience on the matter.  
> *As always, thanks to oddgit for the beta, she's terrific!  
> *** Also, I claim no real medical knowledge for anything! Google and the imagination are the only tools I've used so please don't rely on any of what I make up.

**Harold**

It started out harmlessly enough as most potentially destructive things do, but as a general rule, Harold had never been one to allow himself to over indulge. In _anything_. His mind was the only thing about himself that he was proud of, felt good about, and was abundantly grateful for.

He’d always taken particular care not to do the kinds of things that the average, so called "normal" _,_ young person experimented with in high school and overindulged in college. No, not him. He never wanted to kill off his brain cells just for the short-lived enjoyment, if you could call it that, of losing oneself to the mind-numbing effects of alcohol or drugs of any sort.

For Harold, the caffeine in his tea was the only guilty pleasure he ever really allowed himself, and even with that there wasn’t enough of the stimulant in a cup to raise a mouse’s metabolism, let alone a full grown man.

He never imagined that he would ever get to a place where his thoughts and concentration, his intellectual aptitude, would ever be put into question. A position where not only was he neglecting his vast mental acuity but he was irreparably damaging it as well.

If only he’d seen it coming… what a fool he was.

*************

From a very young age, his predilection to test his skills in the art of coding and hacking had instilled in him a proclivity for maintaining a high-alert awareness of his online activities. Particularly when his hubris and the ARPANET debacle almost cost him his freedom and more. Since that time, he’d always been diligent and careful to keep his wits about him at all times, on and off the computer.

Over the years, working with John, he’d learned instinctively what steps were necessary to avoid difficulties in any number of scenarios. He never worried that any of the instantaneous, and often times crucial, decisions he had to make on a daily basis might be the wrong one.

He’d always been able to maintain a high level of concentration and never feared that he might potentially be putting any of his friends in life threatening situations… not until now.

In all his life, he’d never before allowed himself to drink so much that it endangered his ability to make the correct and responsible decision for _anything_ at any given moment.

But not long ago, he had allowed himself to fall into an unimaginable position. He developed a vice that at this point, he no longer had any control over. He now found himself at the bottom of a pit that was so far over his head it seemed a hopeless endeavor to even make the attempt to claw his way out of.

*************

Of course, there hadn’t been an issue in the beginning. It started out as just an occasional glass of wine or a tumbler of Bourbon to mark and rejoice in a victory, a celebration after a life had been saved or a villain incarcerated.

Then it became a drink or two in an evening here and there, just something to warm him from the inside and relax stiff muscles and soothe aching joints and give him at least some chance at a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Then as with all things that one comes to enjoy, things that start out benign at first as just a way to relax and let your mental faculties have a little respite on occasion, alcohol had become a routine that had gradually grown into a desire, and then one or two evenings a week turned into three, and then five and now, every night and all times of the day.

The desire had evolved into necessity.

Now a stiff drink is required just to be able to function even halfway acceptably and things have come to a head and suddenly you’re out of control and the people that rely on you to keep them safe and make the right call in highly dangerous and volatile situations, are in serious trouble.

You have blindly and unforgivably let yourself put them into life threatening positions and you can’t, for the life of you, figure out how you let it get so far out of your control.

Only now, has it dawned on you that you need to get your life back and your problem rectified. Only when John has almost died under your watch, and surely would have if it weren’t for Miss Shaw’s presence, are you willing to admit that you have to stop.

At first, you try to convince yourself that you could just slow it down, reign it in a bit and everything will be fine again… but you know it’s a lie. You know that if you don’t stop now, and forever, that you will not only lose the most important people in your life but you will lose yourself as well.

The second part of that realization has already begun and you don’t really care because you’ve never thought yourself important to begin with. But you cannot allow John or anyone else to die because you’ve let yourself submit to the enticing allure of alcohol and the release into oblivion it offers.

That horrible reality is the only thing that’s going to get you to stop, because you don’t care what happens to yourself, but you can’t stand the thought of letting anyone else get hurt or die _again,_ because of your deplorable negligence.

John needs you.                                                  

John needs your mind clear and unsullied and cognizant.

**************

It has been terrible and unforgivable that I’ve let it get to this state. This irrepressible need for alcohol has become so dominate over me, even knowing that so many others rely on me for any number of reasons, that at times I don’t even seem to care about them enough to put the god damned bottle down.

And even worse and unconscionable is that when the times that the pain in my body has become seemingly unbearable, no matter the time of night or day, I will also pop a few of my pain killers on top of it.

Perhaps I am trying to kill myself... I’m not a fool or an imbecile. I know what opioids and liquor taken in conjunction can do to ones liver and other vital organs when mixed with dangerous levels of both.

The potential for overdosing is high, but even in those times when I feel the need to take the pain medication because I have woken with my failing body in such an agonizing state, that it sucks the oxygen from my lungs from its intensity… Even then do I drink that treasured elixir of respite and forgetfulness until, at times, I black out… or pass out, whichever comes first.

And maybe now, the worst part of it is that even knowing I’m still nearly drunk from only getting a handful of hours of sleep or less, I don’t care if I’ve finally overdone it enough to asphyxiate myself when I next lay my head down to sleep.

Maybe at this point that truly is where I am. I guess that’s what I have been gradually leading up to. Another effect of the drinking is a false sense of truth. Or maybe seeing past it and accepting what has been the self-destructive reality all along. I _want_ to die…

But to leave my remains to be found by John or even Miss Shaw would be a horrible and vile thing to do to them. I couldn’t do that to anyone. It would be reprehensible.

As soon as I’m sober enough, I’m going to investigate a good place to disappear to. A place no one will ever find me. A location with an abundance of trees and where no one goes.

A forest in the middle of nowhere that has wildlife that will obliterate every last scrap of me, wipe me off the face of the planet as it were, as if I never existed.

I can give back to Mother Nature some of what I’ve taken from her while I’m at it. Yes, that’s what I’ll do as soon as I’m sober. I will find my last resting spot and be done with that part of my end anyway.

I’ll have to make a list of options as soon as I can. But I’ll have to be careful that John doesn’t see.

John… he’s the one I hate to burden the most. He’s been my rock for a long time now. I hope he won’t take it too badly. I know it will hurt at first and I’m fairly confident that it will take him a very long time to get over it.

All I can do is hope that he can someday forgive me for taking the cowards’ way out. But if I do this right, he’ll never really know that I’m dead. That’s the best thing for it. Let no one know where I’ve gone or what I’ve done…

Hell, why wait…? The sooner I can stop being a liability to John the better. Let’s see what I can find now…


	2. John and Root

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Roots perspective on their beginnings with Harold

                                                                                                              **John**

When Finch found me, after I got over my initial thoughts of killing him for what he’d done to enlist me, we started working the numbers together. We were complete opposites and extremely wary of each other, him more so of me of course and who could blame him?

After all, he’d claimed to know exactly everything about me and while I didn’t literally believe him in the very beginning, I came to understand that it was true. He’d seen my files and he did seem to know everything about me. On paper at least. 

That was impressive in itself and should have been enough to make him extremely cautious and alert around me. Who wouldn’t have their guard up around a trained black-ops guy who’d tortured and killed people... a _lot_ of people… government sanctioned or not.

Then I learned that on his own, Finch knew so much about my personal life, it made my head spin. I’ve never asked him just how he’d found out all those things about my past, everything from who my first grade teacher was to who I’d lost my virginity to.

I thought I had pretty much everything from my past under lock and key, buried deep inside me, but he proved to me just how wrong I was.

Then I made a game of following him whenever I could and tried for quite a while to delve into _his_ past, to level the playing field. But after I’d found out about what happened with Nathan and with Grace, suddenly the game wasn’t so fun anymore. It became much more serious and I stopped trying to encroach on his private life and his past, it wasn’t important to me anymore.

Then he was taken by Root and my whole world was turned upside down.

It was then that I learned that Finch was much more to me than a boss, or even a partner. He was not only my redeemer, but my friend and my touchstone and meant as much to me as my own family ever had.

This man, who had practically forced himself into my life so that I could help him not just save innocents from harm… but save my own life and self-worth in the process, had known what he was doing from the start.

He had somehow seen something good in me that I thought had been killed off and was gone forever. Some value in me that I never thought I would see again and he used his magic to resuscitate and gave it back to me in spades.

Finch knew exactly what he was doing for me every step of the way and not once ever asked for anything from me in return, _except_ for me to look out for myself. For that and so much more I will forever be grateful to him.

I’m so sorry it has come to this.

I should have seen it sooner and helped him realize what he was doing to himself. I was a fool. I watched it happening but kept my mouth shut about it for fear of overstepping my bounds.

I hope he can find it in his heart to forgive me for allowing him to dig himself into this hole. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the long run, but the most important thing right now is to get Harold the help he needs. All I can do is hope that with this intervention, we can get our friend back to where he belongs, helping people he doesn’t know and giving the rest of us the motivation we need to keep doing the same.

*************

**Root**

When I learned there was a man that possessed the skill and foresight to create what I could only dream of I was absolutely thrilled. This man looked at code the same way I did.

He saw what only a handful of people in the world could, the unbridled capabilities and potential that an ASI could have when created with the proper hands. I was enamored with Harold long before I met him and knew that I had to find him.

When I did, I managed not only to frighten him but disgust him as well with my own ideals of what an omniscient being should be able to do in the world.

To this day I have never told Harold how I found out about him and he’s been gracious enough not to have asked. Of course he’s brilliant enough to have figured it out on his own, and maybe he has.

But when I took him, when I _abducted_ him, I’ll never forget the expression of unease I saw on his face after I eluded to knowing about not only the Machine but about Nathan.

The shock he had shown when I mentioned his dead partner’s name was palpable and in my own twisted mind I was exhilarated and delighted with myself that I had been able to that to him. And I made it painfully aware to him that _I_ was in charge and he was under _my_ control.

I rubbed his face in it at every opportunity because I knew that Harold would  _never_ risk putting someone else’s life in jeopardy by defying me. I’d threatened it often enough and he had already seen how unstable I was and knew that I’d follow through with my threats of violence on innocent bystanders.

To put him in such a demeaning and distressing position was a very vile thing for me to have done, and I regret it with all my heart. I’ll always be ashamed of what I did to him. He’s the gentlest, kindest, and most compassionate man I’ve ever know and I put him through hell for what have must felt like an eternity to him.

First with kidnapping and drugging him and then forcing him to witness my heinous acts of torture and murder to get what I wanted. I wasn’t in my right mind in the beginning and that’s no excuse but I hope he understands that it was only because of his tender guidance and unending patience, that I no longer think the same perverse way I did.

Because of Harold, I have found a humanity and an ability to feel like most _normal_ people must feel. He helped me find a propensity for caring that had been buried so deep inside me I never knew I had it.

I told him once before that I had lived in darkness before I knew him and that he was the one that had brought me to light. I meant it with my entire being. And for that I will be forever grateful to him.

I hope he doesn’t hate us for what we have to do but it’s because every one of us loves him so much that we have to take these steps.

                                                                          


	3. Shaw and Fusco

                                                                                                           Shaw

I admit I didn’t know what to think of Harold in the beginning. My initial response was, ‘W _hat’s this guy’s game?_ This man who seemed to have all the knowledge and resources in the world at his fingertips, and even had his very own ex-op, guard-dog assassin, or whatever the hell Reese was supposed to be, out there doing his bidding.

What logical person wants to help someone they don’t even know without some kind of payoff? What was he getting out of it?

I’d never met anyone in my life that didn’t have an ulterior motive behind everything they did, big or small, before I met Finch. Even after knowing all the unsavory things I’d done for the government, the torture and the killing I’d done, even then he’d _still_ gone out of his way to save my life.

That’s a rare thing these days. A civilian that would knowingly save the life of a black-op like me, knowing exactly what I’d done, even if it was in the name of the good ole USA. 

I’d killed a lot of people, no questions asked and he still tried to convince me to let him help me. I could tell just by meeting the guy, that he had no stomach for the kind of thing I was so good at. He didn’t look like he could hurt a fly, but yet I still got the impression he could do a hell of a lot of damage in other ways.

His unassuming persona would work on most people, but I was no pushover. I could tell a liar from a mile away and Finch radiated nothing but truth and goodwill. He’d been able to get under my skin in the first two minutes of talking to him. I intuitively knew that he really did want to help me in any way he could, and in my book, that was a pretty significant accomplishment.

Then after my ‘ _death_ ’ at the hands of my former bosses, Harold arranged for my ‘ _resurrection_ ’ and let the bastard’s think I was dead so that I could have at least a chance of keeping myself alive. That was another big point in his favor, but what really got me rethinking things was the fact that he’d arranged it so my partner Cole was made out to be a ‘ _hero that had died in the line of duty_ ’ in an undercover operation for the CIA, instead of just disappearing off the face of the planet without a trace.

Harold had somehow hacked into Langley and created a whole fabricated identity for Cole, so his death wouldn’t have been swept under the rug, unknown of and in vain. That’s what clinched it for me.

Cole’s parents were heartbroken, but that acknowledgement in the paper had made it a tiny bit easier for them to accept. Harold didn’t have to do that, but some innate part of him did what he felt was not only the right thing to do, but it was the just thing also. And how in the hell did he even pull it off?

I’ll never forget what he’d done for me by doing that for my partner and I’ll always be grateful to him for saving my life and Cole’s reputation. Gradually I came to understand and accept the idea that it was just who he was.

The seemingly small things he does for people, people he doesn’t even know, mean so much, and he has no clue how great that is.

He’s going to be really pissed when we all gang up on him but it’s what has to be done. He’ll just have to get over it. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to dust off and polish up my medical chops. It’s too bad it has to be done like this but we’ve gotta do what we gotta do.

                                                                                                         Fusco

The day Mister Happy came into my life and turned it upside down and backwards, I thought to myself, ‘ _I am royally screwed_.’ This guy is either going to get what he wants out of me and kill my ass right off the bat, or he’s just going to get pissed and kill me the first time I fuck up, which I gotta admit, happens a lot.

Either way I knew I was dead, it was just a matter of time. Then, after a while, I found out there was someone else workin with him, someone behind the scenes, and when tall dark and dangerous got himself in trouble and disappeared... the guy who showed up lookin to me for help with finding him was a pretty big surprise.

He looked like the ‘professor' type, all smug... with thick black-framed glasses and a suit that probably cost way more than what I make in a month.

As soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew who the boss was. I didn’t even know his name yet, but I saw he was uptight and tense asking about his partner and I wasn’t about to push him too far before I knew who I was dealing with. I’ve been fooled by appearances before and I’d be damned if I ever let that happen again.

But the thing about it was, although he hid it well, I could tell that the guy was uneasy about his friend’s wellbeing and in my book that spoke volumes. I never had no one show that much concern for me when I got myself in a jam, hell not even my wife when I was married seemed to care, but here was this guy determined to save his what, employee…? His colleague?

Hell, I didn’t even know what they were to each other back then but it didn’t matter. This guy was going to move heaven and earth to try and save the guy that was putting the screws to me, while I was hoping Reese would be taken out of the picture for good so I didn’t have to put up with his demanding ass anymore.

But looking back, I kinda think it was at that point that my attitude started to change with what the guy who had my balls in a vice and his ‘friend or boss’ were trying to do for people. People they didn’t even know for Christ’s sake. I knew I wasn’t no boy scout or good-deed doer, but seeing what these two were able to accomplish between them was pretty damned impressive and I thought, in the back of my head, if they could do so much good for so many people, so many _strangers_ , then I could at least try and do my part and help them out however I could. And in the process _maybe_ I could make some kind of amends for some of the shit I used to do on a daily basis.

Then after working with them, not being forced into it, but by doing it because it was the right thing to do, I got to know the both of them pretty good.

I got to see John change with Finch’s guidance. Under his hands, John had gone from a reckless asshole who didn’t seem to give two shits about me, to a true and thoughtful friend.

I have to credit Finch with a big part of that change. His compassion and undying faith in all of us has influenced every part of who we are now as individuals _and_ as a team.

Harold has helped mold and transform every one of our lives into something greater than we could ever have done on our own. Without his steadfast belief in us all, we wouldn’t be half of what we are now, and for that I will always and forever be grateful to him.

Now we have to take care of him. He’s going to hate us, I know from experience; he’s going to despise us and hate us for what we’re going to do to him.

But all any of us can ask for is that he come out of this in one piece and someday forgive us for what we had to do. We can hope so anyhow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold is slowly but surely losing it and John's had just about enough.

_I am damned as you see me here, I have come from hell and to hell I must return._

Harold opened his eyes sluggishly, blinking away the haziness that clouded his vision with the ominous phrase running through his mind. He lifted his head slowly and discovered that he’d been laying, slumped over on the desk in front of his computer monitors. The words were fading quickly and he was grateful for it. His conscious thoughts were dismal enough, he didn’t need any from his sleep chasing him into wakefulness and infiltrating his wretched disposition of late.

He took a long moment to straighten himself out as tentatively as he could while he tried to remember exactly when he’d sat down in the chair. He looked at the time which was pointless, it wasn’t really any help if he didn’t know what time it was when he sat down. He must have nodded off quite a while ago though, why else would his neck be so sore?  

The headache he had was terrible and his right hand went up automatically to rub at the pain in the fused vertebrae near the top of his spine.

He wondered what it was he was supposed to be doing. He knew he was at his desk for a reason, but he’d forgotten why and found nothing laying around in which to tell him.

The data than ran across the screens held no clues for him either, whatever the task was he hadn’t started it yet. _Oh well, it’ll come back to me in at some point._

He stood up from the chair and swayed on his feet. He quickly grabbed the edge of the table for stability so he didn’t fall over.

When the dizziness subsided, he gazed all around the room at the long rows of bookshelves that surrounded him and he smiled happily. He loved his refuge. The whole building belonged to _him_ , it was _his_ alone and was filled with thousands upon thousands of books.

His grin broadened. This was his retreat, his safe place… his _home_. He could think of nowhere else on earth he’d rather be. He was going to miss it dearly.

 _If only he hadn’t shared it_. He should have kept it private, unknown from anyone else. He could have just ended things here and been done with it, without the added difficulty of having to leave the building.

But that was impossible now. Not with John, Miss Groves, and Miss Shaw coming and going as they damn well pleased.

An overwhelming feeling of irritation washed over him and he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he stood fuming about the sad reality of his safe haven having been invaded by so many others.

He was still unsteady on his feet and opened his eyes quickly, fighting against the vertigo that had overtaken him behind his closed eyelids. His vision swam and a sharp twinge in his hip made him wince with its ferocity, and as quickly as that, the emotion of anger flitted away to be replaced with mild confusion.

Then he thought he remembered what he was going to do. The glass next to the keyboard was empty, _‘Ah yes, I must have been going to get another drink to wash my medication down.’_

He steadied himself again before turning gingerly and heading for the stack of books he’d hidden the last fifth of bourbon in. He made a mental note that he would have to order another case later today, it wouldn’t do to have to resort to the cheap stuff he had just lying around.

He made his way down the aisle with his hand held firmly to the back of his aching neck. He’d noticed his limp had become much more pronounced lately. ‘ _Maybe I should start trying to walk through the library a few times during the day for some exercise. Perhaps it might be helpful to walk Bear through the different locations of the building. Maybe I could throw the tennis ball for him to chase. But that would mean reclaiming him from John’s possession and clearly the animal was much better off staying with someone that could give him the attention and vigorous workout he needs._  

Harold knew he had been neglecting his duties as Bear’s primary master. The poor dog had changed over the course of the weeks staying with him here at the library. He’d chalked it up to not giving him the exercise and responsiveness he so richly needs and deserves. He seemed to have lost the eagerness and the enthusiasm he once had with boundless reserve and never initiated play anymore, he just laid around much more than he ever had before. It was if Bear had become depressed and dejected and it was heartbreaking to witness. So, as much as he missed his four legged companion, it was for the best that he had asked John to take him a week ago to let him stay with him and at times Miss Shaw. _‘I’m sure he’s much happier with them.’_

He started to meander his way down the shelves towards the ‘Spirituality’ section and chuckled remembering how clever he thought he’d been to file his favorite ‘ _spirit_ ’ under that particular category.

He stumbled and caught himself from hitting the floor just as his ear bud alerted him that John was calling. He quickly composed himself and answered, “Yes, Mister Reese. What can I do for you?” There was no answer, he tapped below his ear, “Mister Reese?”

“No, Harold. This is Shaw.”

She sounded a bit _testy_ , “Oh, yes… I’m sorry, Sameen. Did you need something?” he asked.

“I didn’t call you, Finch. Maybe John did?” she answered coolly.

“I’m sure you must be right. I’m sorry I bothered you Miss Shaw, carry on…”  _Shit! Now that’s embarrassing,_ he thought and proceeded through the stacks, using them to help him maintain his balance as he hobbled along.

There was the alert again, “Mister Reese?” he answered again hopefully.

“Finch?” John answered, “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” he answered as calmly as he could, “Why wouldn’t I be?” Harold found the section and began drawing books from the shelf until he found what he was looking for.

“There’s no new number as of yet, Mister Reese. Why don’t you find something pleasurable to do for yourself today?” he suggested and pulled the bottle of ‘ _George T Stagg Kentucky Bourbon’_  from the shelf.

“I was thinking about taking in a movie as a matter of fact,” John began, “One of your favorite foreign films is playing down the street at The Waverly. Wanna go?”

Harold froze, he was taken off guard and for a moment didn’t know how to respond. He never imagined John asking him to go out of the library for anything today, and he was sure as hell not prepared to leave it right now.

“Finch…? Are you still there?” John prompted him. He'd heard Harold doing something in the background but couldn’t quite make out what it was and now it was quiet.

John also detected a slight slur to his words. It was only a quarter past one in the afternoon and John knew his partner was already lit. He decided then that this had to stop right now. It had already gone on too long and there were no signs of it slowing down. Harold’s drinking was only getting worse. “Finch?”

“Oh, uh” Harold stammered, “No… but thank you, Mister Reese. I’m uh… I’m really not feeling very well,” he lied. “I think I may be coming down with a… a cold or something. You go and enjoy yourself.”

“Well, it doesn’t start for another hour and a half,” John replied eagerly, “why don’t I bring you some chicken soup from Frank’s deli. Maybe it’ll help you feel better and we can go together… like old times.”

“Um, no… thank you, John... but no. I’m not hungry right now and I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way.” Harold was not fond of the idea of John or anyone else being around him right now.

He had things to do. He wasn’t exactly sure what they were at the moment, but he knew there was something he was going to put some research into and he didn’t want any distractions.

“It’s no trouble Finch, really,” John countered. He wanted to see Harold in the flesh and judge for himself how bad off he already was today. “I was going for myself anyway and its only two blocks from the library. I could swing by and we could have lunch together; there’s plenty of time before the movie starts.”

“Damn it, John. I said no!” Harold answered heatedly, “I’m not hungry and I don’t want you here so just go see your movie and leave me in peace.”  Harold disconnected the line without preamble and stood there dazed wondering ‘ _what just happened?’_

He steadied himself before staggering into the back room and sitting down heavily on the old couch they kept there. Jesus, he was stiff, his whole body ached.

He pulled his prescription pill bottle from the front pocket of his trousers and set it next to him on the couch while he removed the seal from the bottle of bourbon and pulled the cork. He secured the bottle between his legs and took the top off his medication and sat for a long moment, attempting to gauge how bad the pain was before tipping the painkillers in his hand. He settled on four.

He didn’t bother trying to stand again to find a glass, he washed the pills down with a swig from the bottle.

 _‘Why in the hell couldn’t Reese just have taken his answer the first time he told him no and leave it at that? He said he didn’t want to go to the god damned movie with him and John should have just let it go right then!_ ’

John was pushing his buttons more than ever and he was getting tired of it. But he knew that his partner was starting to suspect that he might be drinking a little more lately than he should.

But that was none of his business. What right did he have to put his nose in where it didn’t belong? As long as he was holding up his end of things, John should just butt out!

But then again… _he really wasn’t doing his job very well anymore was he?_ If that’s what John thought, maybe he had a point after all. He’d have to put some thought into it after he feels a little better. The pain was almost unbearable at the moment and he couldn’t think straight.

He’d have to remember to tell him he was sorry the next time he heard from John again, after the meds kick in. He would be sure to bolster his apology with a gift of some kind. John’s Ducati was a couple of years old by now, surely a new one would go a long way in showing just how remorseful he was for being so short with him.

Yes, he should make a note so he doesn’t forget, and as soon as he remembered what he’d forgotten to do earlier he could add that to the list as well. For now… Harold looked at the pill bottle in his hand and blinked at it, had he already taken some? He looked inside and couldn’t determine from what was in there if he had or not. ‘ _Well only a couple then, just in case._ ’

He popped two more of the pills in his mouth and swallowed them down with another swig from the bottle. He put the cork back in the bourbon and capped his medication before setting the booze on the floor and laying his head back against the cushion of the couch and closing his eyes _. ‘Just a few minutes rest and I’ll get back to work.’_

_********_

John was headed to the library. He didn’t give a shit how irritated or angry Harold was going to be with him anymore. He’d already let this go on for far too long and now he needed to try and get an idea of just how far off the rails Harold had gone. Then the rest of them could all could sit down and figure out what steps they were going to have to take towards getting him sober and back to his own self again.

John tried to ready himself for a confrontation as he drove. God, he hated what was happening. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen to people like Finch. But come hell or high water, he was going to make it right. Between him and the rest of the team, Harold wasn’t going to have any other choice but to come back to them.


	5. Chapter 5

John had calmed himself down by the time he’d pulled into the deli parking lot and went inside quickly to pick up the soup and sandwiches he’d called in on the way to the library. He was sure to include a ginger ale for Finch in case he had an upset stomach. He hoped that Harold was actually sick with a cold and not drunk as he suspected but only time would tell.

As per their usual routine of leaving their vehicles at least two blocks away from the library at all times to avoid being followed back, John left the car in the space at Frank’s and walked towards their headquarters.

He figured he’d better give his ornery partner a heads up before he got there, to avoid catching him completely off-guard and even more irritated than he already was. He tapped his ear piece to connect with him and waited a few seconds, ‘ _Come on Finch_ …’ there was no answer. ‘ _What the hell?’_ John picked up speed and continued to try and get an answer from Harold as he walked along.

In the past when John had been unable to reach Harold, it was a usually a sign that things weren’t as they should be. If nothing else, Finch was a stickler and always conscientiously reliable when it came to being accessible by phone, _no matter what_.

The only occasions it had ever happened, were times when he’d been drugged or incapacitated in some other way.

Now John’s heart was starting to beat faster in his chest. He instinctively knew that if he wasn’t able to get ahold of Harold nowadays, it meant that he was more than likely distracted and he’d forgotten to turn his receiver on. Such things _never_ happened in the past, and now John was way past the point of turning his head and looking the other way with such an inexcusable infraction anymore.

This was the second such occurrence in a week and he couldn’t let it go on anymore. He’d thought that Finch had learned his lesson when his oversight had nearly cost John his life a couple of weeks back after being attacked from behind and knocked over the head.

If Shaw hadn’t been in the building with him at the time, the number would have killed him for sure and it still resulted in a minor concussion. Afterward, Harold had felt so terrible and made such a huge production of remorse and regret that John was pretty sure he’d learned his lesson from the oversight and it would never happen again.

Clearly he’d been wrong.

He kept trying to reach Harold, with no success. When he got to the entry from the alleyway he opened the door, put the take-out aside, and rushed up the staircase, taking three steps at a time. “Finch!” he yelled as he ran. “Finch, answer me!” He got to Harold’s desk and looked around. “Damn it. Finch where are you!?” he yelled and hurried towards the back room.

He saw books that had been pulled from the shelves recently stacked haphazardly, just lying about here and there and knew something was definitely off.

When he got closer to the room, he stopped dead in his tracks, fear momentarily overtook him. Harold was slumped over on the couch with a bottle of his prescription pain medication in his hand and a half a bottle of booze sitting on the floor near his feet.

His heart leapt to his throat, “Finch!” he bellowed and rushed towards him.

Harold startled awake, “ _What’s happening…?_ ” he answered in confusion and moved instinctively to stand, crying out when his weakened leg lanced hot pain through his hip and gave out on him. Dizziness overwhelmed him and forced him back down on the couch with a terrible jolt to his neck and spine.

John quickly knelt beside him, concerned. He took the pill bottle out of Harold’s hand and pocketed it, receiving a stern look of reproach in return. Harold was in too much discomfort to argue at the moment.

“What are you doing, Finch?” John asked disappointedly and picked up the bottle of bourbon with disdain and held it up to his partner.

“Why are you here?” Harold asked irritably, “I thought I told you I don’t want you here right now.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” John rebuked. “The better question is, what’s gotten into you?” he shook his head admonishingly and looked down at the bourbon he held.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve, Mister Reese.” Harold snatched the bottle from John’s hand and laid it back beside him on the couch. He held his hand out to John for his pills to be returned and left no room for dispute. “I’ll have those back.”

“ _Finch_ …” John was almost beside himself, he couldn’t believe this was happening as he handed the pills back reluctantly. “Harold, it’s not even one o’clock in the afternoon; you do realize that, don’t you?”

Harold was pissed, “No time like the present,” he snapped and glared at John.

“You’re out of control, Harold. It’s killing me to watch you spiral into oblivion. You’ve never been a man to lose control,” he added adamantly. “Please let me help you stop this before it’s too late.”

Harold wouldn’t look at John and just pursed his lips, holding back a seething anger he seemed to have barely any control ever.

John could see the muscles in his jaw working to keep his mouth shut until suddenly, Harold’s demeanor appeared to settle a bit and his eyes began to glisten.

John took the opportunity to go further but Harold still wouldn’t look him in the eye, “The Finch I know doesn’t _lose control!_ ”

“You’re absolutely right, don’t you see?” Harold smiled sadly, “The man you _knew_ didn’t lose control. I don’t know who I am anymore, John…”

John sat down next to his friend and remained quiet until Harold was ready to talk. 

“Please, you don’t understand,” Harold pleaded forlornly. In his mind’s eye he imagined his father looking at him and frowning.

“Then enlighten me, Harold. I’m here for you.”

“I… I’m,” he stammered hesitantly, “I’m going to tell you something… I’ve never…” he took a slow breath and started again. “I haven’t told another soul what I… what I want you to know.” Harold sat back against the chair and closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. He felt surrounded by pain and loss and the emotions squeezed his soul like a vice.

His thoughts were so disordered he couldn’t grasp the right words to reveal to John what has haunted him his entire life.

He had to make him understand.

John had become the most important person to him in the world and he had to make him see, but his thoughts were all over the place and he didn’t want to mess up what would more than likely be the only opportunity to bare his soul to his best friend.

He had one shot to exorcise his demons and all he could feel was the fear of John thinking he’d lost his mind. His mind was muddled and he was so tired and weak. He wasn’t at all sure if he could make enough sense to pour his heart out right now.

John waited patiently and watched emotional turmoil wash over his partners face.

The atmosphere in the room was charged with grief and sadness as Harold tried to gather the strength and the courage to tell John something that he had been evidently traumatized with for a very long time.

John’s heart ached at the sight of his partner’s struggle.

“When my father…” he began tentatively but then stopped once again to gather himself. He looked into John’s eyes and he saw the one thing he could not abide... he saw _pity_ there. He took a deep breath and shook his head indignantly. “No,” he said. “You have no right to judge me, to think me weak!” Harold stood abruptly and almost fell over. John reached out to steady him and Harold found his footing and pushed John away angrily. “How dare you!”          

“Finch, calm down, please.” John stood ready to aid Harold in any way he would let him and was grief stricken that things had taken this terrible route. “You’re not thinking clearly; let me help you.”

“Get out!” Harold exclaimed impatiently and pointed toward the stairwell, “Go, John. I don’t want you here anymore. Leave now!”

John was dumbfounded by the turn of events and gaped in disbelief with how quickly things had gotten out of hand.

“You have no right to be here anymore, _Mister Reese_!” Harold spat at him viciously, “Your services are no longer required… _Get… Out!”_


	6. Chapter 6

 

This was it… this was the tipping point for John; he’d seen and heard enough. Harold had shown his hand and gone too far by firing him, revealing that he was ready to throw away all that he and the rest of them had worked so hard for all this time.

Harold was willing to turn his back on Nathan’s selfless and valiant cause, and in doing so, had proven to John beyond all shadow of a doubt that he was no longer in his right mind.

The man John had come to know and love would never have desecrated his former partner’s memory by turning his back on the numbers. Harold Finch was buried somewhere deep inside the man before him now, barely able to stand on his own two feet.

Harold was a mess and he needed to be rescued and given his life back. There was nothing else John could do now but save his drowning friend. He was compelled to get everyone together and force Harold to get sober and get his medication regimen back on the _right_ track.

John had very little doubt that Harold was abusing his painkillers now too, and might very well end up killing himself with a deadly combination of the two. As long as John had breath in his body... there wasn’t a snowballs chance in hell he was going to let that happen.

“You sanctimonious ass,” John stated acerbically and approached his indignant partner.

John tried to remain calm, but he was seething inside and he could see that he’d taken Harold off guard with his reaction, rendering him speechless. He stopped directly in front of his inebriated partner while Harold, disheveled and unkempt, dressed in his shirtsleeves, tie askew and waistcoat hanging open, swayed on is feet and glared up at him.

“Are you even hearing yourself, Finch? Can’t you see how stressful it is for me to have to watch what you’re doing to yourself… how upsetting it is for the others to witness you slowly unravel and disappear before our eyes?” John didn’t give Harold a chance to reply before he went further, “You know what, don’t answer that. I already know that you can’t see past your own selfish need for escape while you live inside a bottle.” He was through tiptoeing around anymore and he towered over Harold and continued his assertion. “You know what else? It’s not happening anymore. I’m not going to allow it, Harold. You need help and I’m seeing to it that you get it; even if it means you end up hating me for it.”

The color had been steadily rising on his face as John was unleashing his frustration on him and Harold was well past stunned now and into resentment. “Are you quite finished now?” he slurred scornfully.

John could tell immediately nothing he’d said sunk in. “Actually… no. I’m not.” He began trying to get through to him again. “Why can’t you just…”

Harold cut him off, “That was a rhetorical question, _Mister Reese_ ,” Harold bit out resentfully.

He watched a trickle of sweat drip down the side of Harold’s face as he stood there unsteadily, swaying ever so slightly. John could tell he was doing everything he could to remain steady on his feet.

John just wanted to take him by the hand and somehow _will_ the man to understand how much he was hurting himself and everyone around him by abusing and neglecting himself to the point of pure senselessness.

“I am not a child and _you_ are not my caretaker…” Harold had lost all composure as he spoke with venom permeating every word. “I am… I’m, as of this moment, officially expelling you from my life.” Harold took half a step back, making a bit more room between them while John watched carefully, ready to catch him if need be.

When John didn’t move, Harold glared at him and raised his voice even more, “Didn’t they teach you English in spy school? I want you off the premises… _now!_ ”

John shook his head and didn’t move from his spot, didn’t speak. He just stood there stoically, practically towering over him and saw pure rage mounting behind Harold’s bloodshot eyes. He felt an awful anticipation and wasn’t sure what was going to happen next, but he was determined to delay his departure until something did. It wasn’t long before he got an answer. 

John watched as something came over Harold swiftly, something he appeared to have no control over. He saw it clearly as it manifested in his entire countenance. Harold seemed as though he’d become someone else when he suddenly backhanded John hard across the face. “Damn you!” Harold shouted. “I don’t want you here! This is _my_ library. _Mine._ Do you hear me… and I don’t want _you_ or anyone else here ever again!”

Harold was out of control and John was in shock. He could hardly believe what just happened. His hand had flown to his face reflexively. The sting of the blow to the side of his face hurt some physically, but it was nothing compared to the emotional pain that came from Harold’s unexpected show of violence towards him.

He continued his fervent avowal as if nothing had happened. John was becoming more concerned by the second as sweat trickled steadily down the sides of Harold’s face, becoming absorbed into the rumpled collar of his dress shirt.

“I have spent the last fifteen years of my life trying to save people. _Some_ of who didn’t even deserve it! Maybe I’ve _earned_ the right to do what I want to with my own life now! Have you ever thought of that, _Mister Reese_? Have you ever given one moment of thought or understanding to the fact that someday I might want to be done with it all?” 

John’s eyes glistened as he allowed Harold to rage against him senselessly until all of a sudden, Harold stopped his rant dead in his tracks and very nearly collapsed to the floor. “Harold?” John caught him and steered him back to the couch and carefully helped him sit down. “Harold, are you okay?”

Harold stared, transfixed by a tiny drop of blood at the corner of John’s mouth that had come from the blow he’d delivered. He was so horrified and ashamed of what he’d just done, he couldn’t speak. He just rubbed the knuckles of his right hand dazedly.

John was starting to freak out from his reaction. He had no idea what had caused Harold to shut down and close himself off so completely.

“Finch, can you please just say something. You’re scaring me. I can see that you’re struggling. Let me help you… _please_ _say something.”_

Harold seemed to regain his composure and he turned to look John squarely in the eye, stating with cutting precision… “You need to leave, John. _”_

John was crushed. With those last few words and Harold’s stubborn and terrible resolve, he realized that he'd had gotten nowhere.

His own resolve finally broke and he took a deep breath while his heart ached in his chest. He stood up and walked towards the exit.

His mind was whirling with concern and heartbreak as he descended the stairs, but he didn’t look back and there was no hesitation in his mind as to what needed to be done immediately.

Finch needed help and he was going to get it. As soon as he walked out of the building, John pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Shaw’s number…

“There’s no more time,” John said into the phone. “Get everyone together at the diner… we do this tonight.”


	7. Chapter 7

Harold’s world diminished down to a pinprick as he watched his partner slowly walk away, dejected and heartbroken. Harold followed him with his eyes descending the stairs until he disappeared from sight and ultimately what little time was left of his life. This would be the last time Harold would ever see him. He was deeply saddened and ashamed that the last memory John would ever have of him was one of contempt and outlandish behavior, with hateful words being unleashed upon him until he finally could take no more and had to leave for his own self preservation. _What had he done…?_ Life had become a living hell, not only for himself, but for everyone around him now, especially John.

But it was for the best that he’d used that icy tone with him. How else was he going to get him to leave? He _had_ to force John to go so he could take care of things… set things in motion before his partner could interfere and delay his plans any further.

He’d just _proven_ that he was no longer capable of doing the right thing. _He’d just struck someone he loves,_ for Christ’s sake! He’s never raised a hand to anyone like that before in his life. It’s a completely deplorable and inexcusable act and he can’t believe he’s allowed himself to stoop to that level and exude that kind of unacceptable conduct.

It’s now gone so far out of his control he can’t even rely on himself to act like a reasonable human being anymore. He can’t grasp onto anything tangible enough to ground him back to the man he once was. Violence had overtaken him and injected itself into his very core, and no one should _ever_ come to expect that kind of behavior from _him_. He can’t… he _will not_ allow himself to become that kind of person. He never thought he would live to see the day he would physically harm another person. And now this despicable act piled on top of everything else that has wormed itself into his existence, _this_ was the final straw.

He was truly lost now; he had to put a stop to it before something like that, or worse, could happen again. He would sooner cut his own throat than to physically harm anyone a second time.

Harold used the armrest of the couch to pull himself forward and stood wearily. His vision swam and he was bone tired but he had to get going. His body screamed at him with every movement it was forced to to make. He straightened his posture as best he could and clutched the bottle of bourbon to him as he limped along. He was in so much pain he could hardly stand it ambling towards his computer desk and practically collapsing into his chair.

He bit back a whimper of agony, _‘I have no time to waste. I’m more than ready for everything to be done and over with. John’s not going to let it rest… I have to get things in motion…it has to be now.’_

He pulled his prescription pill bottle from his pocket and poured the contents onto the desk. He shook his head, ‘There’s not enough here _… damn!’_

He has to leave, there’s no other choice, he has to go to one of the safe houses. Every one of them has its own supply of medication and alcohol. _‘Why haven’t I thought of the place on 22 nd street before? No one even knows about that one, I don’t have to worry about being found by_ _anyone._ _Everything I need is there, it’s all set…There’s no reason for me to have to leave town now. I’ll finish up here quickly and then be gone before anyone knows it.’_

Harold looked at the time on the monitor, it wouldn't take long to leave a note but he had to hurry. He opened a file then took a deep breath… and began typing.

_Dear John,_

_I have to go away. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me…_

***********

John waited for Fusco, Shaw, and Root at the diner that Finch had introduced him to years ago. The place that as far as he was concerned, marked the beginning of their partnership. He turned the coffee mug around in his hands and recalled the start of their cause wistfully.

He thought back to that day and the prim and proper man that would eventually come to mean the world to him with great fondness. He felt a smile come to his face, the same sappy grin he remembered donning the day Finch opened himself up a fraction and offered him his first olive branch, right here in this very booth. That was the day the enigma of a man that he himself could find no information on, had given John a very brief peek behind the curtain that had initially separated them so decisively.

 _‘Try the eggs benedict, Mister Reese. I’ve had them many times…’_  John’s smile grew from the memory of his partner’s initial, endearing unease around him early on.

Finch was suspect of everything, and for good reason, after all he knew _everything_ about him.

It had been a successful day in more ways than one. It was the day they’d closed the case on Judge Gates and his son Sam and opened the path they would tread along together moving forward, a future of doing good things for people that deserved it and letting the authorities deal with the rest.

It was also the day he finally came to realize that his life had value and meaning again, that he’d be saving lives now instead of taking them. A good man had saved him from himself and given him a worthy and noble cause to pursue. Harold generously allowed him to be his weapon and his shield and aid him in his selfless crusade to save the world, one person at a time.

 _How could everything have gone so terribly wrong?_ John’s emotions were getting the best of him. He looked at his watch impatiently and peered through the window.  It had already been fifteen minutes since he’d left Finch and he was anxious to get back to him.

Finally, after what felt a lifetime, Shaw and Root arrived at the diner and sat down across from John without a word, anxious for what John had to say.

“We have to hurry. Finch is at the library and he’s not… he’s not himself.” John saw Lionel crossing the street and breathed a bit easier now that they were all here. He came inside and John moved over to let him sit down beside him and he listened intently as well.

“Harold is too smart for his own good sometimes,” Root announced. “We have to be inordinately more clever than he is if we’re going to fool him with our plan. Drunk or not, he’s not one to be trifled with.”

“That goes without saying, but it’s gone way beyond that now. The plan has changed. We need to make sure the safe house has everything he’s going to need to do battle for as long as it takes to get him back to us safely. He doesn’t trust me anymore, especially when I blatantly told him that I was not giving him a choice about anything… that I was going to _make_ him get sober. I fucked up doing that. If I had kept my mouth shut, I wouldn’t have driven him to the brink _._  Right now it’s come down to getting back to him at the library as soon as we possibly can before he can disappear.”

Shaw piped in, referring to John’s fat lip. “Is that what happened to your mouth?” she asked perceptively, “Did you _drive_ him to that too?”

John slammed his fist down on the table in frustration, ignoring Shaw’s obvious assertion. “I shouldn’t have left him there alone! He might be able to leave before we can get back to him! I’ll never forgive myself if he’s already gone. We need to get moving.”

“Do you think he’s suicidal, John?” Root asked the question point blank, she was terrified that if Harold planned to take his own life before they were able to get to him, there wouldn’t be a damn thing any one of them could do to stop him.

John looked at her in shock for a second. That horrible thought hadn’t crossed his mind, then he shook his head vigorously, “No… _No!”_ They all looked at him anxiously while he took a deep breath and stared out the window. “I don’t believe Harold would do anything so… so _irrational_.”

Root spoke up, “None of us imagined he could become addicted to alcohol either. Look how irrational that was, but it happened.” She saw Shaw nod in agreement and John suddenly got all the more impatient.

He pulled a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and laid it on the table. “God, I don’t think he would but… I just don’t know anymore.” 

Lionel chimed in quickly before they all made a move to get going and gave his thoughts on how things were most likely going to go once they got Finch to the safe-house. "In the beginning he's gonna want to kill every one of us, believe me, I know. It was tough enough gettin’ through it myself, God awful in fact and I've helped a few guys get clean too. When Glasses figures out what we're forcing him to do, and then what's comin for him a little later on, he's gonna to want us all dead. He's gonna feel like hell and be sicker than a dog for a long time and he's gonna want whoever's around him dead when we don't give in and give him the fix he needs... trust me." Lionel looked pointedly at John and braced himself for the reaction the big man was going to have before he announced the next likelihood on his list. "We'll most likely have to restrain him for awhile, strap him down if he gets combative." John looked at him with fire in his eyes, "Hey, easy." Lionel held his hands in the air, "Look Reese, it's gonna be for his safety too, not just ours. You're gonna have to accept doing certain things if we have any hope of getting him through this. He can't do it without our help... _all_ of our help, good and bad."

“He’s right, John.” Shaw interjected coolly, “I’ll go on ahead and make sure we have everything we’ll need and wait for you while the three of you do what you can to get him to come with you on his own.”

“I hope he doesn’t try and fight us…” Root’s eye’s glistened.

John took a deep breath, not quite trusting his voice before nodding, then, “So do I… Let’s do this.”

Twenty five minutes after leaving Harold alone at the library, John Root and Fusco walked inside the old building…  


	8. Chapter 8

As soon as John walked inside and felt the atmosphere of the place he knew something was wrong. When they went further in and made their way towards the staircase, they were met with a silence so complete and all-encompassing, the air was thick with it.

“Finch!” John yelled towards the floor above and sprinted up the stairs, leaving the others in his wake. His instincts told him the building was empty, but he wouldn’t let that stop him from finding out for certain as soon as he possibly could. “Harold, answer me!” he called again hopelessly.

This was the first time Lionel had ever been inside of, or had even known about, the library. He gazed around the ground level of the vast structure, with books strewn about, with curiosity and surprise. For a minute, he wondered why it was in such a sorry state before logic kicked in and told him it was all a façade. The place was supposed to be shut down, abandoned. So it only made sense that it would be in disarray.

“Root, check downstairs!” John called behind him as he cleared the first section of steps in a hurry. As he got closer to the main floor, he was fairly certain they were too late. He just knew that Harold was already gone.

“On it!” she called after him, “Lionel, you check that side of the floor and I’ll look inside the conference rooms on this side then, meet you upstairs.”

“Will do…” Lionel made quick work of his task with no luck then hurried towards the stairs.

John’s heart sank the closer he got to their floor of operations. He knew it would be no use; he’d let Harold get away. He could feel it in his gut and he hated himself for not anticipating the possibility his infuriating partner would do such a thing, just vanish.

What made everything all the worse was what Root had said just a few minutes ago, it was probably true. If it was Harold’s intent and he was of the mind to kill himself, it would be nigh on impossible to find him. He’d ensure that he disappear so completely there’d be no trace of him left… _nothing_ to find.

John cleared the last few steps and prayed that he would see Harold sitting at the desk when he rounded the corner. Although he’d already expected it, his heart thrummed faster in his chest when he saw his chair empty.

He hurried to Harold’s workstation and took a quick, preliminary look around only to find a social security number and some information up on Harold’s main monitor that had not been there a little while ago when Harold had thrown him out.

He glanced over to the glass board and saw that there was a photo of the new number, a woman, which must have come in just minutes before Harold had taken off. He’d taped it up with a hard copy of additional information that was not displayed on the screens.

John shook his head in incredulity. Finch had taken the time and effort to research this woman so John and the rest of the team would be ready to work the case regardless of his own plans.

It was strange, but John felt a tiny bit of comfort and reassurance knowing that Harold’s self-prescribed responsibility to protect the numbers was _still_ so ingrained into his psyche.

No matter how bad Harold’s personal demons had become, no matter how much physical pain and emotional turmoil he’d been going through, Finch had always managed to work the cases that came in… and this time was no different. It seemed that his selfless moral compass was still on point and that, at least, was _something_.

John didn’t bother looking at the information for very long, he shook his head in exasperation, “Finch! Harold!” he yelled into the back room as he ran towards it, “Damn it! Where are you?” He searched the area for anything out of the ordinary and only ended up finding three empty bourbon bottles that had been clumsily concealed behind a stack of books lying haphazardly behind the couch.

He didn’t want to think about how many more empty bottles were likely to be found if he bothered to look. He snatched the throw blanket that was balled up on the couch off and heard an empty prescription bottle roll across the floor. He picked it up and looked at it. _“Fuck!”_ he thought to himself.

The drug shown on the label was for valium. John wasn’t aware that his partner was taking a depressant or anything else for that matter in addition to his pain meds.

He was no doctor, but he knew enough to understand that this particular drug was _not_ supposed to be taken in conjunction with opioids or alcohol. John pocketed the bottle angrily and checked between the cushions of the couch more thoroughly.

John had suspected that Harold was using the worn piece of furniture on the rare occasions he _tried_ to sleep and he pulled the cushions off irritably. His adrenaline spiked again when he found another bottle, this one with about half of the contents still inside. He looked at the label and his heart nearly stopped with alarm.

This prescription was for the potentially dangerous drug, Ambien.

John wanted to punch something.

He was intimately familiar with this particular type of sleeping medication. He’d had his own adverse experiences with the drug before Finch had found him. He had taken it a few times, attempting to get whatever sleep he could while living from one fleabag hotel to another when he wasn’t literally sleeping on the streets.

The most terrifying incident with the drug had been when one of the many times he was completely drunk and didn’t care whether he lived or died.

This drug was dangerous enough on its own, but mixed with alcohol, it was much more than that… it was very possibly life-threatening. He’d never forget the night he’d hallucinated ordinary objects in the room morphing into hideously terrifying creatures that he was convinced were going to tear him apart.

Thank God he’d had his own room all to himself and was able to keep hold of his sanity long enough that he eventually passed out for sixteen hours. He’d never forget that terrifying night through hell as long as he lived.

There was no question now, John was sure that if Harold was planning to end his own life, it would be a tremendously easy thing for him to do. His fear hit a new level, as he considered the ramifications of what he’d just found.

John prayed, _’Please God… please let us be wrong. Please don’t let Harold be thinking about killing himself, we need him… **I** need him._ ’

Lionel caught up with John and breathed heavily from the effort of hauling himself up the stairs, lugging all his extra weight. He looked around the place, “Jesus, you mean this is the place… you’ve been working from all this time?” he panted.

John ignored him, too worked up with dread and anticipation, “There has to be some kind of clue Finch has left behind; something here he missed when he took off. Look around this room some more for anything that might tell us something, Lionel. I’ll check around his workstation more thoroughly.”

When John got back to the room, Root stood at Harold’s desk. She was holding an envelope in her hand along with what John knew to be Harold’s cell phone.

He stared into Root’s eyes, not speaking, but both understanding each other all the same. She held the envelope out to him and took a shuddering breath. He took it from her apprehensively and looked down to see his name scrawled inelegantly on the outside.

He was almost panicked. Root’s pointed question earlier was still eating at him, it had unnerved him horribly and he kept thinking back to Harold’s unusual behavior a short time ago, his increasing rage and insistence that John leave the library… and now he understood why.

“His mind is muddled,” John stated fretfully, “He’s not thinking clearly right now. We have to find him! We have to find _something_ that can tell us where he went!” John was desperate for any scrap of information.

“Well, he’s not so mixed up that he didn’t know to leave his cell behind.” Lionel spoke up behind him, “How are we supposed to find him now?”

Suddenly it dawned on John, “Root, you have to get the Machine to tell us! Make it see that he’s going to die if it doesn’t tell us where he is and it will be its fault!” he shouted vehemently, “The damn thing is going to be responsible for its creator’s death! Can it comprehend its role in this if he ends up a corpse!?”

Before Root had a chance to reply, a window came up on Harold’s monitor. John looked down at it in shock and then in comprehension. _“Thank you…”_ he whispered.

“What is it!?” Root exclaimed and rushed over to see for herself.

John smiled as the information on the screen flashed over and over again, in very large type. “It’s the GPS location for Harold's car…” he replied hopefully, “Thank goodness he didn't think about that... Now let’s go get him.”  


	9. Harold's suicide attempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold tries to kill himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with Harold's attempted suicide by overdose. If there are triggers of any kind for anyone out there please feel free to skip it, it shouldn't interfere with the rest of the story.

There was one fleeting moment when Harold had actually considered changing his mind and allowing himself to live. Then, as he sat on the couch in the house that no one else knew about, staring numbly at the prescription pill bottles laying on the table in front of him, his mind obligingly supplied some of the reasons he couldn’t let himself go on.

To start with, it would mean going back and attempting to manage and cope with the perpetual stress that was put on not only his body every day, but on his mind as well.

Being responsible for so many other people’s lives had become almost too much to bear and that in itself was enough to make him want to call it quits. Added to that, the constant and at times, agonizing chronic pain he lived with day in and day out had become tedious and taxing and he’d had enough of it.

Having lived with it all these years was _not_ something that he wanted to do anymore. He’d had more than his fair share of it and he loathed the idea of having to exist like this any longer.

But much more than any of that, the biggest issue was that he’d become a dangerous liability to the team. He couldn’t allow himself to put anyone else’s life in jeopardy again. He’d become negligent with his responsibilities and could have caused any one of his team to be put in potentially life-threatening situations numerous times and cost them their lives. He’d almost done it with John already and that was enough for him to re-evaluate his importance to their mission. It was undeniably clear to him, it was an obvious decision in his mind that left no alternative.

For everyone’s sake, he had to end his role in the grand scheme of things and stop putting their lives at risk. Once he’s been taken out of the equation, the rest of them would have a much better chance at longevity and perhaps even happiness.

They all deserved so much better than what he’d been able to provide lately and… ‘ _Maybe John could finally have the family he deserves…’_

Harold picked up the near empty bottle of bourbon and drained it into the already partially filled glass on the table.

He opened every bottle of medication he had in the house and poured the contents into a second rocks glass. He picked it up and turned it around in his hand contemplatively, with no emotion getting in the way... he was resolved.

The glass was almost full to the top, a colorful pallet of varying prescription drugs, all with the potential to get the job done on their own, but in conjunction they were sure to fulfill their intended purpose. _‘Let’s do this then…’_

Harold poured some of the contents of the glass into his mouth and swallowed them down with a swig of bourbon. He winced and nearly gagged as the copious quantity of pills made their way down his throat in a cluster. He shuddered for a moment then regained his resolve.

He continued the task until both glasses were empty. He sat back against the cushions of the couch and stared up at the ceiling.

This was it.

It was the last few minutes of his miserable existence and then his torment would be over for well and good. He tried hard not to think, to clear his mind of everything, but horrible, tormenting memories of the past insistently wormed their way into his consciousness, unbidden and wholly unwelcome.

Harold could feel his head starting to spin as soon as he closed his eyes and was forced to open them again in effort to curtail the feeling of vertigo and nausea that was trying to take hold.

He sat forward and stood up gingerly, stumbling towards the hall, he tried to make it to the back bedroom so he could just lie down and be done with it all when suddenly the front door burst open.

He couldn’t find it in him to be surprised when he saw, through his drug fueled haze, John and the others rush inside.

The only thing he could focus on was the look on John’s face. It made him ashamed of everything he’d put his partner through these past few torturous weeks of hell when his world began crashing down around him… _“I’m worn through John, forgive me…”_ Harold collapsed to the floor before anyone could reach him.

He was fading in and out of consciousness and didn’t feel a thing when he’d hit the ground.

It seemed John was at his side in an instant, picking him up by the shoulders and holding him gently in his arms.

He was saying something that Harold couldn’t understand, _“Let me go, please... ”_  Harold whispered.

He tried to keep his eyes open long enough to tell John one last time how sorry he was, but it was no use.

The room was growing dim and his hearing was fading into obscurity, too distant to comprehend what was happening around him. He took one last shuddering breath and remembered nothing more.


	10. Chapter 10

“Finch!” John exclaimed and ran to him and lifted him from the floor. He cradled the nearly lifeless man in his grasp as Harold seemed completely unaware and murmured something John couldn’t quite hear before he passed out and went completely slack in his arms. “Talk to me, Harold. I couldn’t hear you. Open your eyes, say it again… please!” He loosened his partner’s tie, and pulled it free from his collar then unfastened a few more buttons on his rumpled shirt.

“Sameen, we need to know what to do. Harold is out cold!” Root hurried over to the table and took one look at what was there, or more to the point, what wasn’t there. _“Oh god, no... please...”_ she said under her breath.

“He’s taken who knows how many pills with alcohol. Every prescription bottle is empty as well as the bottle of bourbon. Tell us what we can do!” Root was so distressed by the sheer quantity of drugs mixed with the liquor Harold must have taken, the panic she felt was almost overwhelming.

Fusco knelt beside John and placed his hand against Harold’s forehead then moved it down over his face. While he attempted to gage Harold’s temperature, Lionel tried to ignore the uncharacteristic and just plain _wrongness_ of what amounted to several days’ worth of stubble under his fingertips.

The man he’s known all this time would never even have dreamed of going a single day without shaving and wearing soiled and untidy clothing. It clutched at something deep inside him to see Finch this way, so utterly transformed and unlike the forever, fastidious and immaculately dressed gentleman he always was. “Shaw, his skin is cold, but he’s sweaty, he doesn’t look so good, what do we gotta do?” he interjected anxiously.

“The first thing every one of you need to do is calm the fuck down,” she replied irritably. “Do we know how long it’s been since he ingested the pills? Was he conscious when you got there?”

Root spoke up. She’d taken one look at John and understood that he was in his own headspace right now and barely managing to keep a grip on himself while he tried to get his partner to respond. “Wake up. Come on, Harold… don’t do this… please don’t do this. _Please_ ,” he repeated like a mantra while he held Harold locked in his embrace.

“He passed out as soon as we got here… I… we, we just don’t know,” she answered as evenly as she could, trying not to betray her own frazzled nerves.

“Reese, how’s his respiration?” Shaw asked calmly.

John shook his head, unable to answer through his fear.

“His lips are turning blue, Shaw,” Lionel replied and checked Harold’s carotid artery, “He’s not breathing right and his heart is barely pumping.”

John caressed Harold’s face tearfully, “Please, Finch… please wake up.” He lifted Harold’s eyelid, one and then the other and choked back a sob. John had never seen Harold’s eyes appear so blue and he knew that it wasn’t a good sign.

Lionel spoke up again anxiously, “His pupils are constricted as hell. Shaw, they're barely there.”

She didn’t mince words, “You’ve got to get him here immediately and if he stops breathing, you’ve got to be ready to perform CPR on him. Time is of the essence and you _have_ _to_ _keep_ him breathing. I assume there’s an Ambu bag there somewhere; Root, check the bathrooms. Reese, keep trying to wake him up. I’ll keep the line open while I finish getting things ready here.”

“You think you’re gonna have to pump his stomach?” Lionel asked and stood up to give John a hand getting ready to move Harold to the car.

“No,” Shaw stated concisely. “If we don’t how long the drugs have been in his system, it would be pointless and could be dangerous. I’ll most likely administer activated charcoal and go from there. I hope to hell it’s not too late. You’ve got to get moving… _now!_ ”

That got them all in motion fast. While Root had gathered the empty pill bottles and ran to check for the CPR aid, Lionel helped John pick Harold up carefully into his arms and started for the exit.

“Open your eyes for me, Harold,” John choked out while he looked down on his partner’s sallow face, “Wake up, please…”

Lionel found that he couldn’t speak at the moment, couldn’t offer any words of comfort to John. The direness of the situation had robbed him of his voice. He had never seen Reese so upset and emotional and it tore at his heart to see the steadfast former op so out of sorts… and to see Finch so close to death. His chest ached and he looked away from the dying, tormented soul in John’s arms.

Root quickly returned from the back room with the bag. “Lionel, you drive, I’ll sit in the back with John and help if I need to.” She opened the door and tears stung her eyes as she watched John carried Harold’s motionless form past her. She swallowed down the lump in her throat and prayed they weren’t too late.

They were making for the car as quickly as they could, when Harold suddenly began breathing rapidly and gasping for air. He was still unconscious and they could all hear gurgling sounds now coming from his throat. A profound sense of dread blanketed them all.

“Sameen! He’s having trouble breathing!” Root exclaimed, frightened out of her mind. ”It sounds like he might have fluid in his lungs!”

“Root, you have to calm down. You know what to do. You _all_ know what to do; now get him in the car and prepare yourselves to get him breathing again if you lose him on the way.” Shaw hated the position she was in. She hated her hands being tied and not being there to help.

It sounded to her like he may have aspirated into his lungs and if Finch ended up dead because of her terrible call with the situation, she didn’t know what she would do. “Just hurry and get him here as fast as you can.” She cursed herself and her decision to go on ahead of the rest of them and prepare for what they had all thought was going to be an intervention, not a god damned possible death scenario.

She had no idea things with Harold had become so precariously fucked up and dire… and imminent. She should have anticipated something like this and been there personally in case it did. Why in the hell didn’t any of them see it coming!?

“Reese…?” Shaw prompted him gently at first. She could hear them all moving into the vehicle now and Root’s gentle encouragements to Harold to wake up and Lionel’s heavy breathing as he helped John guide and position Harold’s limp body inside the backseat of the town car, and helped him to settle up against John’s chest. _“Watch his legs, Lionel. It’s his left side that’s injured so be careful with that one especially_.” She heard Root say. She could hear the profound underlying concern in her voice and it made Shaw feel sad and fucking pissed off at the same time.

John had gone quiet… too quiet. Shaw had to get his mind on task for both his and Harold’s sake. She could only imagine what this was doing to him.

She had a pretty good idea how much Harold meant to him in particular. The big guy had been with him from almost the beginning and what had first been Harold’s crusade, then had become their mutual fight. Every one of them loved him, but John’s regard for Harold was on a whole other level.

Finch was John’s savior and if he were to lose him… Shaw was pretty sure she knew what would become of him and she couldn’t stand the thought. Losing one of them would be a devastating thing for her, but the possibility of losing both of the very few friends she’s ever had in her life was incomprehensible.

“John!” Shaw shouted, breaking him from his stupor.

John visibly flinched as though he’d been slapped across the face, “I’m here,” he replied, startled.

“Listen to me. You gotta get your head back in the game; Finch needs the regimented, professional soldier right now. Not some pussy that can’t figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to be doing!”

Lionel and Root shared a look, “All set Lionel, hurry.” She told him and settled on one side of the car between the two men with Harold’s legs over her lap. Lionel hurried to the driver’s seat and started the car.

John stroked Harold’s disheveled hair away from his brow, trying to tame his unruly strands and Root barely held back a sob at the tender display. “Reese, talk to him. Try to wake him up,” Shaw suggested.

John nodded unconsciously in affirmation, “Finch…” he began slowly. “Finch, Bear is at the house we’re going to.” He wiped at his eyes and sniffled, “He misses you a lot… he hasn’t been the same since he’s been without you. You have to help him… only you can do it.” John continued to caress his partners face lovingly, “He’s going to be so happy to see you, you have no idea, he’s…”

Root suddenly leaned over Harold and panicked when she placed her fingertips against his throat to feel for a pulse, “He’s stopped breathing John!”  

Desperation overtook them both and Lionel stomped harder on the gas pedal as John and Root flew into action to try and resuscitate their dear friend.


	11. Chapter 11

 

For her part, all Shaw could do was grit her teeth in frustration and listen helplessly to the panicked voices in the car trying to get an assessment of Harold’s condition. She heard Lionel say breathlessly, “We’ll be there in five minutes, Shaw.” Then she heard John and Root’s voices overlapping each other and figured she could guess what they were getting ready to do.

She could practically envision them both trying to get Harold in a horizontal position to start chest compressions but that step might not be necessary. They needed to determine if Harold’s heart had stopped before they did _anything_ else.

She hoped they weren’t both too panicked to be thinking clearly, and potentially do something wrong.

She asked as calmly as could manage, “Guys, does he have a heartbeat?” She waited for a split second without a response. Evidently, there was too much racket going on for them to hear her, so she raised her voice and shouted irritably, “Root! Does he have a _fucking_ heartbeat?”

The commotion settled down some, “Everybody be quiet so I can hear,” Root said and put her ear against Harold’s chest. John watched anxiously and Lionel kept checking the rear view mirror between dodging in and out of traffic. “Yes he’s got one… his heart is beating!” she answered earnestly and looked at John. She tried with all her might to give him some kind of hope through their locked expression, “It’s faint, John... but it’s there.”

“Alright, he needs to be bagged…” Shaw began earnestly, “John you’ve done this before and I know between the two of you, you can get him breathing again… you _can_ do It.”

Trickles of sweat ran down either side of John’s face and he nodded anxiously, “Yeah. I know what to do,” he replied as steadily as he could. “Good, you also know better than anyone else how much range of motion Harold has in his neck.” She added, “You can discern how far you can tilt his head back to open his air way without causing any more damage. It’s best if you’re the primary support.”

Root took one of Harold’s hands in hers and squeezed it gently, a tiny reassurance for herself that he was still alive.

John took the Ambu-bag and put the top of the mask over the bridge of Harold’s nose while the bottom laid between his lower lip and the cleft of his chin.

“I’m ready,” John announced, “here we go…” John held the mask in place with two fingers while the other three supported Harold’s jaw and tilted his chin up very cautiously with the other hand. He moved with all the care and precision he could muster.

He’d never forgive himself if he caused any more impairment to his partner’s already compromised spine by bending his neck farther than it was capable of on its own.

Shaw spoke up again, “Root, you need to keep an eye on Harold’s responses. Make sure you see his chest rise and fall as John feeds him air, and watch for any indications of pain or constriction of his air way. John, you’re goal is to breathe for him until you can get him here or he can do it on his own, whichever comes first.”

Shaw coached her two friends with a firm hand. She knew how freaked out they both were and by making her instructions come out as commands it would make everything a hell of a lot less stressful for all of them.

All they needed to do was concentrate and follow directions if neccesary. She could hear John and Root working together and the situation seemed to be a little bit less chaotic than it was a few seconds ago. She felt what could only be described as a sense of pride all of a sudden and quickly shrugged off the unnatural emotion _._

She’s never done the whole _feelings_ thing and she wasn’t about to start now, nothing good could come of it, things were way too grim for any of that right now.

 _“You gotta breathe for me now, Finch,”_ Shaw heard John murmur tenderly. _“You have to try…”_

Shaw kept quiet and went about making room for them to bring Harold in through the front hallway and in to the medical suite so she could get to work reversing whatever the fuck he’d done to himself.

She knew it was bad, so she wasn’t taking any chances. She was going to be ready for any conceivable complication she could conjure up for herself and as long as they got him breathing again and keep supplying him with oxygen, she was fairly confident she would at least have a chance of saving his life. “His chest isn’t rising…” Shaw could hear Root say nervously, “He doesn’t seem to be getting any air in to his lungs. Are you doing it right John?”

“Yes!” he stated decisively, “I think it’s the stubble on his face preventing a good seal, I’m going to lift his chin up a little more, put your hands around the mask firmly.” John continued to squeeze the bag consistently and tried changing the angle of Harold’s head while Root held the apparatus firmly against Harold’s face.

She wanted to cry seeing him like this... He was so pale and his skin was cool, yet he was sweaty as if he were hot. It was an odd state for someone to be in. She’d never seen it before and it scared her terribly that for all intents and purposes... Harold was dead under their hands.

“Come on, Harold. I know you can do it,” John said calmly while he focused intently on what he was doing. “You’re too stubborn to die, you sonofabitch…”

 _‘John’s in control of the situation… Good_ …’ Shaw thought.

“Root, make sure you get a good seal against his mouth and nose and keep it that way, while John gives the bag a good even squeeze.” It was times like these Shaw was thankful that she didn’t have, so called, ' _normal'_ emotions to get in the way.

John was particularly fragile right now, but if she could keep him in a disciplined, military mindset until the emergency passed and the situation was brought under control, things will be a hell of a lot easier for all of them.

“Come on Harry…” Root said as evenly as she could, “Please, just breathe…” After the ninth squeeze of the bag Root nodded her head excitedly, “It’s working now, his chest is rising and falling. He’s getting air!” Shaw could hear relief in Root’s voice and her own blood pressure settled a fraction.

Harold’s eyelids fluttered and he shifted slightly against John’s chest and groaned before taking a short shuddering breath.

John wanted to cry out with relief, but he knew the situation was far from over. He carefully continued supplying Harold the air he couldn't quite manage to get for himself while tears of emotion spilled over and ran down Root’s face. She didn’t make much of a show of her relief either, it was only a small success and they had miles to go before they could allow themselves _anything_ to celebrate.

Shaw was extremely grateful no one was there to see the small display of optimism she found that she couldn’t hide.

“How long until we get there?” John asked Lionel, too absorbed to be bothered to look out the window. “We got about a mile. We’ll be there in a couple minutes.” The detective had been clenching his teeth together so hard through it all his jaw ached like a bitch. “Come on professor! You can make it. Just hold on!” he said brightly. He was encouraged by the turn of events and didn’t give a shit who knew it, he couldn’t hide the big grin on his face.

“Keep it up. I’m ready for him here,” Shaw interjected sardonically, “just don’t fucking wreck and kill the whole lot of you before you get him here, Lionel.”

Fusco chuckled and stepped on the gas. “Be there in sixty seconds,” he replied. “Put on your skates.”


	12. Chapter 12

Shaw was ready and waiting with a gurney at the entryway as soon as they arrived at the safe house.

Lionel pulled the car up onto the grass to get Finch as close to the door as he could. He jumped out to help John get Harold situated and ready to load him on to the rolling stretcher, but John wasn’t having any of that.

“Root, take over with the bag while I carry him inside. To hell with the gurney… I’ve got him.” Root hurried around the car while Lionel made sure Harold was secure in John’s arms and they all rushed him inside as quickly as they could.

Shaw didn’t bother to argue about how he was transported; she led the way down the hall and John got Harold inside the emergency room and laid onto the hospital bed within a matter of seconds. She stayed quiet as she took in Harold’s appearance. She was shocked at the sight of him but tried not to show it, _had it been that long since she'd seen him last...?_ She’d never dreamed he’d _ever_ let himself go the way he had. Gone were the bespoke suits, and the immaculately groomed man she knew… right now, that man was nowhere to be found.

Bear was watching anxiously from the living room doorway and cried pitifully upon seeing his master being rushed past him in the arms of his other master. He didn’t offer to get in the way; he knew instinctively to behave and not distract anyone from the vital job they were doing. He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but he knew it was important and his master Harold needed help. He tried to be as quiet as he was able to be, but he couldn’t help it if his despair was getting out a little with with a yelp of concern here and there. He was terribly worried.

Lionel knelt down beside him and put his arm around him, “It’s gonna be okay, buddy,” he said to him gently. They watched the ensuing commotion together, both feeling anxious and helpless.

Bear sat there whimpering, just itching to help in some way. The dog’s muscles twitched under his coat with pent up energy. Bear was desperate for everything, all the emotions of panic and urgency, to settle down and abate from the house.

Lionel understood what the animal was going through; he was feeling it too, “Shhh, it’s gonna be okay fella,” he repeated gently. “The professor’s gonna make it, you’ll see,” Lionel rubbed the dog’s ears and tried like hell to make the both of them feel a little better, but it seemed that nothing was really going to help right now.

“He’s just barely breathing on his own,” John explained swiftly while he unconsciously smoothed down a patch of hair on Harold’s head that was sticking up at an odd angle, “He was responsive for a few seconds, but nothing beyond that.” John took over the Ambu bag from Root and continued pumping a small, steady flow of oxygen into Harold’s lungs.

Shaw was resolved to treat the crisis as detached from it as possible. She was all business and held a syringe up to the light, checking the dosage she pulled earlier then set it aside for a moment so she could check Harold’s pupils. “Take a break for a second,” she told John, then leaned over Harold and lifted each lid shining her penlight directly into each of his eyes.

She didn’t like what she saw. There was only a miniscule change in the diameter of them and with the intenseness of the beam, constricted pupils were not a good sign. “What’s in the syringe?” John asked earnestly while Root went to the sink to get a warm cloth to run over Harold’s face and neck.

Shaw picked up the needle, and without preamble, injected it directly into the muscle of Harold’s left arm. “Naloxone. It’s going to stop and reverse the effects of the opioids…” she stated coolly. “That’s the hope anyway.”

John shook his head in frustration and looked at Harold lying there so unlike himself. He didn’t want to believe it had come to this, but the evidence was staring him in the face.

“Here, John.” Root handed the washcloth to John in hopes of distracting him a little from the despair she saw in his expression. She wiped her eyes furtively, trying to hide her emotions. “Don’t do this to us, Harry,” she said and stroked his forearm, “please come back…”  Shaw pulled Harold’s shirt open and cut up the middle of his undershirt to put a stethoscope to his chest, moving it around a few areas to listen to his heart and lungs, “He’s breathing well enough on his own for the moment. You can put the bag away for now,” Shaw said. “Just keep it handy; he’s not out of the woods yet.”

John wiped the perspiration from Harold’s bare neck and chest gently, tenderly. Harold never moved or made a sound and John’s heart was breaking in his chest, little by little. He’d never forgive himself for allowing his partner to orchestrate his own downfall.

“What happens now?” he asked numbly.

Shaw took a look at the array of empty pill bottles Root had brought from the other house and couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She seethed with anger and scoffed indignantly, “This is just the beginning,” she announced derisively. “We’re just getting started. There’s miles to go before we sleep.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” John bit out angrily.

“What that _means,_ John,” she replied tersely and looked down again at the man she hardly recognized. Harold had lost weight, a good ten, fifteen pounds and was wearing days old clothing and looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week. She tried to pull herself together, “What that means is that Harold has fucked himself up real good and now _we_ have to _fix_ him.” Shaw was pissed and she didn’t care what Reese or anyone else thought about it. “The bastard has done one hell of a number on himself and it’s going to be a fucking miracle if he lives through the damage.” She stood there shaking her head, looking at the mess Harold had made of himself. She barely held her mounting anger. She wanted to lash out at Harold for doing this to them all. “You sonofabitch.” She said tersely, “You selfish shit…”

“Just tell us what we have to do, Sameen,” Root quickly interjected. She could see John getting ready to lose his head and jump all over Shaw’s ass. “What’s the next step?”

“We try to keep his heart beating and his lungs pumping and we wait,” she announced acerbically. “Then, that’s when the fun _really_ starts.”

They were all quiet. Lionel walked up to the group with Bear. Harold’s hand hung off the table slightly and Bear nudged it gently with his nose as if to say, “I’m here Dad… are you okay?” and looked up at John mournfully.

“He’s asleep, boy.” John knelt down and put his arms around him and patted the dog’s flank consolingly, “You’re going to have to do your part too,” he said, “when the time comes.” Bear whimpered and licked John’s face affectionately. “I know boy… I know…”

“Everyone out while I figure out exactly what the hell I have to do.” Shaw announced, and herded them towards the door, “Bear can stay.” She added.

They all did as they were told but John stopped short of the doorway to glance back once more on his suffering partner. He swallowed hard then turned to join the others with a painful ache in his chest.

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

Shaw walked with them as they filed out of the room and called after John when he turned away, “I’ll let you know as soon as I have an idea what direction we’re going to need to take.”

She closed the door behind them and walked back to Harold’s bedside.

Bear was sitting on the floor looking up towards him, anxiously waiting for some sort of recognition or reassurance from his unconscious master. His ears laid flat and he whimpered quietly while Shaw stood over Harold.

“Why couldn’t you have said something to one of us?” she murmured and shook her head in frustration.

She rubbed Bear’s head and ears thoughtfully for a long moment while she studied Harold’s troubling appearance more thoroughly.

He’d obviously been abusing prescription drugs and alcohol much longer than she knew of. John couldn’t have known to what extent he’d been doing it either, or he would have put a stop to it without hesitation.

She’d seen this sort of thing happen plenty of times in her line of work. People that had simply followed orders and done what their superiors demanded of them until their consciences got in the way and they turned to drugs and alcohol as a form of release to begin with which gradually turned into addiction and finally self-loathing. A lot of them wound up in psyche wards or rehab centers, but a few decided to take themselves out of the picture all together. Seeing only one way out for themselves they ended their own lives.

Cole’s previous partner had offed himself six months before they’d started working together.

But Finch knew things, a lot of things about a lot of fucking issues. He’d been around the block a few times and wasn’t exactly naïve about the subject. He also knew that Reese had had his own issues with alcohol before he found him. She’d never be able to understand it. _‘Christ, Finch_ _. How’d you let it get so bad?_ ’

************

John followed Root and Lionel into the living room and they all took a seat to calm down from the events that had completely thrown them all for a loop. After a few silent moments of everyone lost in their own thoughts John spoke up, “Root, you and Lionel should take care of the number. I’ll stay here and help with whatever Shaw’s going to need,” He announced decisively.

“Whoa, hold on there… are you crazy or something?” Fusco asked bewildered, “I ain’t leaving till Glasses is out of the woods.”

Root smiled sadly at John while Lionel voiced his objection then she added her own opinion, “Harold would want us to, Lionel,” she stated wistfully.

John acknowledged her silently, sharing a look of understanding. The disquiet in John’s eyes was palpable and she was willing to do as he suggested if nothing more than to have something to keep her own mind occupied. Root understood there was a very real and imminent possibility they could still lose their dear friend and leader and if Harold saw fit to begin a new case, by god she’d see it done.

“What? You taking his side here?” Lionel replied tersely, “You’re both batty. I want to stick around and see that he’s gonna make it.”

“There’s nothing gained by the two of you being here,” John said. “Finch would shoot us all if he found out that the number he’d gotten us started on wasn’t taken care of.”

Fusco shook his head with disapproval and stood up, “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know that but you know that what I’m saying is true. Finch would have all our asses if it doesn’t get dealt with.” John turned towards Root, “Go see what you can find. I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening here.”

Root stood and nodded tearfully, “If anything happens…” she began and John cut her off.

“I’ll let you know the minute I know anything myself.” John stood and offered his hand to Lionel, “Be careful and watch each other’s back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lionel replied and shook the proffered appendage. “ _You_ just try not to get your shorts in a bunch… He’ll pull through. Don’t you doubt that.”

“I know, Lionel,” John replied, “I’ll be alright. Now go.” John watched them leave then went back to sit down for a minute to pull himself together.

He’d have to bolster his resolve enough to face whatever was coming down the pike. He prayed that Harold would live through this and make a full recovery. He didn’t think he could do this job without him… he wouldn’t _want_ to do it without him. _‘Please God… help him get through this whole.’_  

*************

Shaw began checking Harold’s vitals. He seemed to be breathing alright on his own for now, but she knew that with the pure quantity of everything in his system there was still a damn good possibility he could stop again or flat line at any time.

His blood pressure wasn’t good but she’d have to consult the computer and polish up on what to expect in these circumstances quickly.

She didn’t have a lot of hands on experience with this sort of overdose before. She had to make sure she wouldn’t fuck up and give him the wrong counter agents and end up killing him anyway.

She leaned over him, “I’m not going to let you die, Finch…” she vowed resolutely. “As much as you might beg me to let it happen before we’re through, _none_ of us are going to let you die.”

Shaw had a pretty good idea what was going to be required but better safe than sorry.

Detoxing was inherently dangerous with either scenario, but with both drugs and booze... it was exponentially worse.

Once the plan was established, she’d get John in to help her remove Harold’s current clothing and get him into something clean.

She still couldn’t believe she’d ever live to see the day that _Harold Finch_ would be found in anything less than perfectly laundered clothing. She pulled his undershirt together and closed his dress shirt over the top, then draped a blanket over him for now.

She shook her head again and looked down at Bear, “We’ve got a lot to do, handsome,” she remarked and stroked Bear’s head affectionately, “Let’s get to work.”

*************

He was pushing his way through the darkness with all his strength. He had to make it through the obscure miasma that was life and into the obscurity he yearned for. After this unbearable path was conquered he could put the regret and shame of the past behind him and forever rest in oblivion.

Harold could see a pinpoint of light just ahead, attempting to force its own way towards him, but it seemed as though it was having the same difficulty getting through that he was.

He turned and looked behind to find colorful lines of code swirling in the atmosphere about him. There were vibrant and beautiful shades of emerald and indigo. He gazed at the strands in awe and found a peacefulness that he’d never experienced before in his life… but when he stretched out his arm to touch them they slipped between his fingers and dispersed, reemerging just out of reach.

A rueful smile played on his lips as a swell of music filled the ether. Tears of profound emotion welled and spilled from his eyes.

He recognized the composition… A vague and distant memory of his mother’s lifeless face touched his soul and overwhelmed him. He sank to his knees and wept like the child he’d been when he’d lost her all those years ago.


	14. Chapter 14

 

John was beside himself with fear. Fear of not only what might have been but for what was still to come. He sat there alone in the living room and tried to figure out what could have possibly happened to Harold’s psyche that had pushed him over the edge and persuaded him to make the horrific decision to kill himself.

Finch had always been the one on the team that could be depended upon to keep his head on straight and make the hard decisions for all of them without any question or hesitation.

But somehow… at some point along the line, something had changed and none of them saw it happening until it was too late. John could only imagine that Finch hadn’t seen it coming either and would lay odds that the situation must have gotten so far out of his control, so fast, that he’d decided it was no use, that he was no longer of any value to the team or the mission anymore.

He must have come to a point where he hated himself so much so that he felt he needed to escape and punish himself by self-medicating. John imagined that it was the latest incident that was the catalyst for his partner’s downfall. His inner demons must have convinced him to finally give up and end everything, to put a stop to his inner turmoil once and for all.

John’s heart leapt to his throat as it suddenly dawned on him. This was probably all _his_ fault. Harold’s decision to end his own life had most likely come after he’d almost been killed by their number.

Harold had taken on the sole responsibility of that disastrous day and evidently never let it go. Even though John had practically begged him to stop blaming himself he wouldn’t listen; if it hadn’t been for his own self-assured cockiness and zeal, he wouldn’t have been taken unaware like he had been and ended up injured and nearly killed.

But Finch refused to see it that way. He’d convinced himself that it was his fault and that was that. Now it was up to him. He had to make Harold see, if it’s the last thing he does, he’ll make sure that he understands that none of that horrible incident had in any way been his responsibility.

*************

After making sure Harold’s vitals were stable for the time being, Shaw left Bear sitting guard next to his bedside and walked over to the computer to start researching the detox protocol for alcohol dependency and prescription drug abuse.

She stopped short, momentarily stunned by what was displayed on the three active screens. Everything she needed to know, all the information available for potential drug interactions and medications that were going to be necessary, as well as dosages and time tables were listed.

There was even a recommended diet program tabbed open on one of the monitors for when Harold could start eating regular food again. The Machine had already done all the work for her.

She huffed in astonishment, but then the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Considering the situation couldn’t be any worse for its creator than it was right now, if there was _ever_ going to be a time that The Machine would become a sentient being, this would be it.

She wondered what Finch was going to think about his child waking up and finding out that it was basically looking out for him, trying to take care of him in its own way. She could imagine how ecstatic Root would be but Harold had always been uncomfortable with the notion of The Machine evolving into omnipotence.

He’d never really believed that it was possible, no matter how hard Root tried to convince him of it otherwise.

He was going to freak.

She smirked and walked to the door, calling for John, “Reese, I could use you in here.”

John was there immediately. “What do you need me to do?” he asked eagerly.

“Well, first off, you gotta see this." She grinned and walked him over to the monitors while John looked towards his unconscious partner anxiously.

He stopped at the monitors and looked at the information, “Well that didn’t take long,” he said.

Shaw laughed, “I didn’t do shit. The Machine did it all by itself.”

John smiled and chuckled meaningfully, “It told us where to find him,” he explained. “I practically demanded that it tell us where he was or he was going to die and it would be its responsibility and it immediately gave us the information.”

“Well I’ll be dammed.” Shaw shook her head, “Isn’t that some shit.”

Harold picked that moment to stir on the table and opened his eyes sluggishly, peering around the room incoherently. “What…” he ran his tongue over his lips to try and moisten them, but his entire mouth and throat were bone dry, “what’s… happening?” he rasped lethargically.

John hurried over and Bear whimpered with concern, “Finch, you’re at one of the safe houses. You’re going to be alright.” John looked over at Shaw as she began pulling a few things out of a cabinet.

Harold was totally out of it, nothing clicked in his brain and the room started to spin around him. He winced at the pain radiating through his body shooting white hot heat, sharp and piercing through his nervous system. He locked eyes with John for one fleeting moment, recognition hitting him like a sledge hammer, “ _You..._ ” he snarled angrily before promptly passing out again.

“Shaw…” John called to her earnestly, heartbroken by the accusatory tone in Harold’s voice as soon as he saw him. “He was awake for a few seconds… he was, he seemed…”

She walked over and patted Bear’s head, “I heard him, John,” she replied. “He’s pissed off that he’s not dead. This is going to be extremely difficult in many ways, I can promise you that.” She took a deep breath, “Like I said before, this is only the beginning of a very long and hellish process. We’re going to need all the strength and patience we can gather.”

John looked down at Harold and swallowed hard, “We’ll get him through it,” he stated determinedly. “We’ll do whatever we have to get him back... even if it kills us."


	15. Chapter 15

“Well, it looks pretty obvious, Lionel… But we can’t be sure until we check into the brother’s background.” Root had taken Harold’s customary position at the desk. She looked over the information that he had already found and had on the screens waiting for them when they got back to the library.

Fusco had been walking around the room, acquainting himself with his unfamiliar surroundings, while Root had busied herself with the new number. “This place is kinda neat,” he remarked, impressed with the old building. He’d never been much for reading himself but he could appreciate the aesthetics of numerous stacks of books aligned almost everywhere he turned.

He came to a stop in front of the glass board and the information that Harold had taped to it. “All this time Wonder Boy and the Professor have been working out of this place and I never even knew it.” 

“Are you surprised?” Root asked amusedly, “I mean, you know Harold pretty well by now, isn’t this exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find him?”

Lionel chuckled, “Yeah, you’re right. A library is just his style.”

Lionel turned his attention to back business and he perused the evidence in front of him, “So according to this, the woman in trouble had been her brother’s legal guardian until about seven months ago.”

“Yes,” Root began pulling up the background information. “And it looks like something happened to the relationship... because she cut all ties to him immediately after he turned twenty one.”

“You mean she disowned him?” Lionel walked to the monitors and leaned over to see the information on the screen better.

“Looks like it,” Root replied as her hands flew over the keyboard. “And it looks like her brother didn’t appreciate his meal ticket abandoning him.”

“Huh, looks like there’s still a life insurance policy that hasn’t been cancelled yet by the sister.” Lionel shook his head, “The ingrate is going to have his own flesh and blood whacked. I’ll bet my pension on it.” Lionel stood up, “Do we know where to find him?” he asked keenly.

“Yes. He’s been staying with a friend at this address,” Root highlighted the info and sent it directly to Lionel’s cell phone. “It seems that young Robert has been making some... not so legal... phone calls inquiring about the particulars of the policy on his sister… and voila, look at that!” Root laughed sarcastically, “The friend has been arrested multiple times for assault.”

“I guess it’s pretty clear what’s probably gonna happen,” Lionel stated and read through the charges. “We gotta get to them before they have time to do anything to the woman.”

“You go; I’ll stay here and monitor everyone’s whereabouts while you do your thing,” Root said and looked up at Lionel, smiling sadly.

“What?” Lionel remarked, “I think it’s pretty cut and dry. I’ll get there before anybody has time to do anything to the woman,” he stated assuredly.

“I know you will, Lionel,” she said gloomily. “It’s just that it should be Harold sitting here providing you the intel… not _me_.”

“Look, don’t you worry about Glasses. He’s one of the toughest SOB’s I’ve ever met in my life. He’ll be okay and back in that chair in no time.” He pursed his lips as Root’s eyes began to glisten, “He’ll get through this,” he stated resolutely. “We’ll all make sure of it.”

Root nodded, not trusting her voice and turned back to the computer, “ _Go_ …” she choked out.

Lionel stood for a moment and watched Root’s shoulders shake from behind. He wanted to say something to reassure her, but couldn’t bring himself to promise anything he had no way of guaranteeing. He turned and left to go to the address he was given leaving Root to lament in her own way.

*************

“Listen, John, we don’t want to overtax his heart. It’ll be a miracle if there’s no irreparable damage from the drugs in his system. So we do this nice and slow.”

John looked at her in confusion and she quickly explained, “I want to get him changed into something clean _now_ because once he starts experiencing withdrawal, we’ll most likely have to restrain his arms and possibly his legs to keep him from hurting himself... or one of us.

John scoffed, “Finch would never hurt another living soul Shaw,” he stated irritably. “You know that as well as I do.”

“Yeah, I do know that, but he’s not going to be the person we know for a long time yet to come.” She motioned for John to get the hospital gown from the side table while she raised the bed. “The sensible, rational man we both know... doesn’t exist at the moment. So you might as well get used to that fact right now.” Shaw knew without any doubt that this was going to be a long hard road ahead for all of them, but especially John.

Once the bed was moved to more of an upright position, they began by removing Harold’s soiled dress shirt.

When the first piece of clothing was tugged off gingerly, the undershirt came next and John noticed Shaw had paused intentionally to take a good look at the obvious and abundant scarring on Harold’s upper torso.

He was incensed. His partners disfigurements were a private thing, not for display or up for conversation and Finch would be mortified had he been conscious to see her curiosity unfurled as it was. “Hurry up, Shaw,” he threatened her heatedly.

Shaw bit her tongue and said nothing to him about his aggressive posturing. She just glared at him momentarily. Normally she’d tell him where he could stick it, but there was no time for an exchange right now. They needed to get this finished straight away so she could start Harold on the medication he was going to need in order to save his life.

After they got Harold into the Hospital gown, Shaw turned to go back to consult the monitor, “You can finish taking his pants off,” she stated distractedly while she studied the information. “Then cover him up. I’ll be right there.”

John unbuckled Harold’s belt and started on the fly of his trousers when Harold stirred unconsciously and winced in pain.

John waited to see what was going to happen and when Harold went still again, he quickly finished removing his pants and covered his partner with the sheets and blankets.

John still couldn’t believe that the gaunt, pale, disheveled man lying before him was Finch. His eyes teared up and he quickly wiped them away as Shaw came up to stand beside him.

Bear, who had found a place in the corner of the room to disappear to for a while, ambled over to them and sat next to John on the floor and whimpered anxiously.

The dog must have sensed something because suddenly Harold awoke with a painful full body jolt.

He peered up at the ceiling myopically, completely unaware of his surroundings or anyone else in the room. He was disoriented and obviously frightened. “What… what’s happening…?” he slurred disjointedly and writhed in the bed.

John didn’t know what to do, Harold clearly wasn’t in his right mind and he had no idea how to react. He looked at Shaw, completely lost.

Shaw shook her head gloomily and took a deep breath, “Harold?” she asked mildly and laid her hand on his forearm. “Harold, are you with us?”

Harold went completely still at her touch and his eyes went wide. He gazed blindly, at the ceiling above him, seemingly transfixed, “Who is it? Who’s there?” he whispered anxiously.

John’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. “Finch, it’s John, you’re going to be alright.” He leaned over his poor partner, trying to make him understand that he was there for him but Harold wasn’t seeing anything.

Harold’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he tried to grasp what was happening to him. “I can’t be alright… I’m dead.” He said despairingly, _“Please…_ I’m not supposed to be here _…"_

Shaw looked at John meaningfully as Harold began to shift in the bed again restlessly.

John saw what she was insinuating when she picked up the strap attached to the safety bar on her side of the bed and motioned for him to do the same. He hated the idea of restraining his partner and refused to even consider it before he had a chance to try to calm Harold down on his own.

“Finch…,” he tried again gently, “You’re with us at the safe house, you’re going to be okay, we just need you to settle down now so you don’t hurt yourself.”

Harold stopped moving suddenly and a look that scared the hell out of John came over his drawn face.

He turned his head towards John and tried to focus on him as comprehension suddenly dawned on him. “Damn you _Mister Reese_...” He snarled viciously, “Damn you to hell.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold is completely off the chain here. He's pissed at the world that his plans of suicide were thwarted and he's lashing out at those closest to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, writers block sucks big time and is soooo damn unpredictable! I hope this chapter makes up for it.

 

John was taken aback by Harold’s hateful words and stood there mouth agape. He’d known everything they’d been dealing with lately with his partner had seemed to have hit a wall. Especially with Harold wanting to be alone so much... but he wasn’t expecting the pure venom and animosity with which Harold was now hammering him with. It felt like a dagger to the heart, and Finch didn’t seem to care in the least.

“Why have you done this to me?” he asked John spitefully and looked down at himself. “What have you done with my clothes?”

“Well since they were _filthy_ we supposed you’d rather be in something clean…” Shaw interjected acerbically, “Were we wrong? Because you can have them back if you want.”

Harold turned his attention on Shaw and glared at her hatefully. “What I _want_ _,_ Miss Shaw,” he began angrily, “is for you and _him…”_ he leered back at John, “to leave… _now!”_  

“Like hell we will,” Shaw answered decisively.

Harold turned on her again fiercely, “This is _my_ house and I want you both gone!” He was getting himself worked up further and further and slurring more and more as he continued his verbal assault. “What gives you the right… the _audacity_ to intervene when I, when I made it perfectly clear that I didn’t want any of you in my life anymore?” he shouted indignantly. “Why do you... why do think I left without any indication of where I was going!?”

Bear, who had been disregarded through it all, turned away from the commotion and crept back to the corner of the room, shaking with confusion and anxiety.

Shaw had had just about enough, “Oh… so, you thought we were all just going to go about our merry lives, doing the work that _you_ started, without you at the helm?” She shook her head, “Nope, that’s not gonna happen… it’s not the way I work and I’m damn sure Reese and the other two feel the same way about it that I do.”

Harold was becoming dangerously stressed out and agitated. He was seething and so angry that his whole body was flushed and perspiration had broken out on his face and dripped down his neck. He glared at John who had, for all intents and purposes, stood beside the bed silently in shock.

“What say you to that, Mister Reese?” he asked sarcastically. “Will you let innocent people suffer and potentially die just because _I’m_ through with it all?”

Harold trusted that he knew better than to believe that after John had found a purpose again, he would give it all up… for _any_ reason. John’s entire life had been immersed with the sole purpose of helping people in need and that conviction wasn’t going to change under any circumstance. Harold was absolutely sure of it.

John was finding it terribly painful to accept that the man who was now cursing at them both, was the same man who pulled him from the gutter and gave him something to live for again. The man that had become the most important thing to him in the world was nowhere to be seen right now and in his place was a profane, unkempt and debauched facsimile of the man they all knew and loved.

If there was anything he could do, if it was in any way in John’s power, he would move heaven and earth to have that man back. But for now, all he could do was hope and pray that Harold would finally come to his senses before they had to take drastic measures to ensure his welfare.

When John hesitated a bit too long to answer Harold’s question, Shaw interjected before Harold had a chance to berate and demean him again. “Finch…” She cut in none too gently, “Get over yourself and listen!” she demanded sternly. “We’re not going to let you die, so just accept it and _deal_ with it!”

Harold glared at her once more and unleashed every ounce of his frustration on her cruelly, “How dare you!” he stated heatedly. “You have a hell of a nerve, Miss Shaw. You’re no doctor; you couldn’t cut it, remember? What gives you the right to try and play one now, you sociopathic ingrate…” he spat at her viciously. “How can you presume to have any influence over me?”

Shaw stared blankly for a long moment as Harold continued his calculated verbal assault upon her.

“What makes you so high and mighty? If not for _you_ , your former partner might still be alive. Have you ever considered that fact? Wasn’t it enough that you allowed Michael Cole be murdered right in front of you and did nothing? And now you want to try and interfere with my life?” He grinned wickedly, “I don’t think so… now get out of this house.” He turned and leered at John, “Both of you… leave! _”_

Shaw was momentarily stunned into silence. Harold’s heartless words had cut her to the quick and if she didn’t know him as well as she did, know that this was not the gentle man she knew him to be, she would have gutted him on the spot.

As it was, she could only stand there and take it. She and John both understood that it wasn’t really the Finch they knew that was attacking them both with cutting precision. That man was lost to them right now, as well as to himself, buried under a nightmare of dependency and self-loathing. They needed to find him and exhume him before it was too late.

In the end, it was up to all of them to save Harold from himself.

John stood there at a loss. He hadn’t been prepared for that kind of vitriol to have spewed from Harold’s mouth. He never dreamed he’d live to see the day that Harold Finch would ever speak to _anyone_ the way he had done just now.

John snapped out of his stupor, “Finch…” He laid a hand on his partner’s forearm hesitantly, afraid of something he couldn’t predict, “You’re not yourself, you don’t know what you’re saying…”

Harold scoffed, “You’re no better than she is,” he said defiantly. “Take your hand off me and get out.”

John saw a look of impending violence in those blue eyes he’d never seen before. He pulled his hand away slowly.

Shaw came out of her momentary lapse and went on the offensive. “Look, _Harold_ …” She said bitterly, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way it’s totally up to you.”

“What don’t you understand?!” Harold’s breathing was becoming more and more labored and erratic and the two former government agents knew what might have to have to be done. There was no reasoning with their friend and they had to accept it.

“I trust you don’t need me to explain it to you… _again!”_ Harold shouted and flung the blanket off, “You’re both being willfully ignorant if you think I’m going to cooperate. If you won’t leave, I’m getting out of here myself!” He exclaimed indignantly and swung his legs off the side of the bed, moving to get up.

Shaw looked at John and they both made ready to detain Harold and keep him from leaving the room.

John took a deep breath and began to reach out to restrain his unruly partner, but stopped short when Harold clutched at his chest and panic suddenly replaced the anger in his eyes.


	17. Chapter 17

Shaw saw it coming and hurried around the bed where John had taken hold of Harold’s shoulders to steady him. Harold’s, arms were bent at the elbows, fingers clutching and pulling at the hospital gown irrepressibly, his eyes wild with terror as he tried to catch his breath. “Reese, his BP is too high. We need to get him calmed down.” She grabbed the stethoscope off the table.

A horrible sound of sheer desperation and distress emanated from Harold’s lips and John’s adrenaline spiked with his own looming apprehension for his terrified partner.

“Finch, take it easy.” John encouraged him as evenly as he could manage, battening down his own anxiousness. Harold couldn’t hear anything, he couldn’t concentrate, he felt like he was suffocating and the sound of blood rushing through his ears was too loud and too fast. It was overwhelming him, making him feel as though his heart was going to burst inside his chest.

John could feel Harold’s entire body tensed and trembling uncontrollably under his hands. His skin was entirely flushed and his breathing had turned into frantic inhalations of air, as if his lungs couldn’t pull enough oxygen into them.

Shaw wasted no time. She crowded next to John to stand shoulder to shoulder with him and looked Harold in the eye as she instructed him calmly, “Finch, listen to me, you have to relax. I know it seems impossible right now but you have to try and calm down, you’re hyperventilating.” The last thing she wanted to do was sedate him and add anything else into the volatile mix of drugs and alcohol already in his bloodstream, but if Harold couldn’t get a handle on his breathing quickly, she’d have to consider it. “You need to slow your breathing down and let me check you out.”

John could feel the enormous tension in Harold’s body and could see the war he waged with the conscious and seemingly impossible attempt to do as Shaw had urged him to do. He could see it in Harold’s distraught and terrified expression, he was trying as hard as he could to fight what was happening to him but he couldn’t make his body obey. John’s heart literally ached for him as he watched the fruitless endeavor playing out.     

“John!” Shaw snapped irritably, “We need to lay him down and…” But there was no need, Harold’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he went completely lax and unconscious in John’s hold.

They eased him down flat against the bed and John stepped away to let Shaw do what she needed to. Harold’s left thigh muscle jumped and twitched spontaneously and as if Shaw could read John’s mind she offered, “It’s just a muscle spasm, John. At least he’s out for it; it should stop on its own,” she stated coolly.

Her casual response didn’t sit well with John and he had to bite his tongue so as not to unleash his frustration on her while she continued her assessment of Finch’s condition. He knew he was being unreasonable, that just because he was so damned worked up and scared out of his mind for his partner didn’t mean that she should be too.

He should be thankful that she was as professional and steady as she was but the fear he had for in the pit in his stomach was gnawing at him and he wanted to lash out at someone or something but that would have to wait for now.

Shaw leaned over Harold and used the stethoscope to determine that Harold’s heart was in fibrillation. _‘Jesus’_ she thought, _‘His heart’s beating out of his chest.’_ She pointed to a piece of medical equipment that was on wheels. “John, slide that ECG machine over here.” She put a cap on her own deep concern and away from John’s mounting emotional sensitivities. It would serve no purpose to let him see just how worried she was about Harold’s condition, John was anxiety ridden enough for the both of them.

John stood by nervously and watched Shaw unbutton the front of Harold’s hospital gown and open it up, exposing the soft mat of his greying chest hair, “I’m glad he doesn’t have any more hair than he does or we’d have to shave his chest,” she said absently then quickly rubbed him down with an alcohol wipe. She got the 12-Lead ECG Electrodes ready to apply to regulate Harold’s heartbeat and positioned the 4 adhesive leads, pressing each firmly against his pale skin and readied the machine, “Don’t freak out on me, John,” she warned, “Everything’s going to be fine.”

John nodded. He knew the procedure and understood what it was supposed to do. He prayed silently that it would only take one jolt of electricity to get Harold’s heart beating regularly again.

They both watched the monitor showing the erratic and irregular spikes of Harold’s heartbeat as Shaw announced, “Here goes nothing…”

*************

 _‘Oh God…’_  Harold woke up sluggishly and blinked his eyes open. The first thing he noticed was that for some reason his chest ached terribly. As he laid there gazing up at the ceiling myopically, trying to recall where he was, it suddenly came to him, _‘Oh yes,’_ he remembered vaguely _, ‘it was the safe house I went to alone, the one no one else knew about…_ but he didn’t remember how he got to this particular room or the room itself for that matter. The colors on what parts of the walls he could see without turning his head were all wrong for one thing but then maybe he’d just forgotten. Having so many different properties all over the city, it was hard keeping up with the décor of every single one of them.  

As he laid there completely still, eyes fixed above him, the room started to sway and his vision began to swim, making him want to retch and heave whatever was trying to claw its way up and out of his stomach. He couldn’t focus or see clearly but was loathe to move a muscle. He closed his eyes to shut out the sickening motion and it dawned on him that he must be missing his glasses… but at this very moment he couldn’t care less.

With his awareness returning so too was the stiffness and pain in his body. He started to hurt more and more and he was becoming extremely lightheaded and felt sick. He decided that just as soon as this tilt-awhirl he was on slowed down to a manageable level, he’d have to get up and try to find his glasses.

His mouth felt like the Sahara; he was thirsty as hell. 

 _‘Another day of waking up with a wicked hangover.’_  But waking up with this one was a little different. With the majority of the others, most of the time at least, he had a vague recollection of finding somewhere to lay down before he passed out. Not this time though. He had no idea how he ended up in this particular room and he started to feel the familiar shakes coming on.

He needed to get himself coordinated enough to try and move, to attempt to stretch his sore muscles then he would find his glasses and a stiff drink, _in that order_ , he told himself. He’d feel a lot better once he had a few ounces of bourbon and a couple of pain pills in his system. But that was a lot easier said than done. Time seemed to drag on as he laid there working himself up to the task of sitting up and he was getting more nauseous by the second.

He decided he better make the move now; he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to stand the queasiness. He had to take the first step to find the bathroom and get rid of what he had in his stomach, _then_ he could have a stiff drink and start to feel better. But the effort of sitting up alone caused every muscle in his body to protest vehemently sending a wave of pure agony through him, momentarily whiting everything out.

He felt faint and laid there, gritting his teeth and holding his breath through the worst of it, until he was ready to try again. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold back his need to vomit, he had to hurry, there was no time to waste anymore as his gut roiled and churned unpleasantly.

Harold took a deep breath and made ready to sit up when he thought a heard a dim sound of movement, stopping him dead in his tracks. There shouldn’t be anyone around; he left the library telling no one where he’d gone. He should be completely alone and then he heard a very faint sound like someone breathing and was suddenly alarmed. Having no idea who it could be, he sat up quickly and looked over to his left to see the fuzzy image of John dozing in a chair beside the bed he was in.

The small effort of sitting up suddenly and turning his head was enough to send his head reeling and his stomach roiling. He couldn’t stop it, an IV tugged at his hand insistently as he brought it up to his cover his mouth and to his utter mortification he heaved bile, the only thing in his stomach, all down the front of himself. 

John startled awake and hurried to Harold’s side. The absolute embarrassment and disgrace on his partner’s face was an awful thing to witness. He was torn as to what he should do, he’d never seen Harold so humiliated as he continued to dry heave.

John thought to reassure Harold, to tell him that it happens sometimes to the best of men and not to be embarrassed by it, but he just knew that nothing he could say would make it more bearable for his poor partner. He stayed silent while he gave Harold the time he needed to pull himself together. He looked around and tried to figure out what to do about the quickly absorbing stain on the front of Harold’s hospital gown but he couldn’t think.

He then saw the pain added to Harold’s features when he winced and squeezed his eyes shut, turning away from John as much as his fused vertebrae and damaged spine would allow. John dearly wanted to reach out to him, to embrace him and offer some sort of comfort but was afraid that his partner was too ashamed or angry to allow it. He watched the back of Harold’s shoulder’s quake and tremble as he sobbed quietly. “Go, Mister Reese…”  Harold took a shuddering breath and motioned towards the door without turning to look at him, _“please_   _god_ …just… go.” He said despairingly and John’s heart broke a little more with each word. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay everybody. So this chapter Finch has completely let his imagination get the better of him and made him a complete paranoid jerk. Apologies for his behavior.  
> Clearly this is not the Harold we all know and love... but keep in mind, he's fallen into a very dark place mentally, he's given up and doesn't want help from anyone.  
> Hopefully sometime soon he'll get over himself and come to his senses.

 

John walked across the room with his heart in his throat and opened each one of the closet door’s looking for something else for his distraught partner to put on.

He finally came upon another hospital gown, all the while being a reluctant spectator to the almost silent sobs of grief and helplessness assailing Harold behind him.

He turned and saw that Harold was still trying to hide his face from him, ashamed by what John knew he would consider an unseemly spectacle. John walked silently back to the chair he arose from and sat back down again without a word and waited.

It was gut-wrenching to see his habitually composed partner so out of sorts and such a complete wreck. Harold’s uncharacteristic countenance was something that he wished he could erase from his memory but John was convinced the sight was imprinted there permanently. It made him all the more depressed for the circumstances.

When he finally composed himself, Harold’s mind was inundated with memories of the last few hours and then of what had happened and where he was.

It all came crashing down on him, his soul dropping to the abysmal depths of despair as he fully realized… ‘ _I’m still here… I should be dead but I’m still here in this helpless body, in this hopeless world.”_

His stomach clenched painfully, adding to his desolation. One more miserable thing piled on top of the overwhelming lot he now carried with him always.

“Why…” Harold’s throat was raw for some reason, speaking in a harsh tone he tried again, “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” He pleaded desolately.

The pathos in Harold’s voice almost brought John to his own tears. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, “You know the answer to that, Finch.”

Harold turned and squinted at John in bewilderment, “No… I _don’t_ , Mister Reese.” He looked down at his body. The IV inserted into his arm and the soiled hospital clothing he wore, now warm and stained with his own bile was making him nauseous all over again.

Then he noticed the padded strap loosely holding his right wrist to the metal railing of the bed. He noticed a band affixed to his right ankle as well, limiting his leg from any real movement.

His head began to spin at the implication. His mind immediately provided the answer to what was being done to him now… he was betrayed. Intellectually, he just _knew_ what John and Shaw were going to attempt, why else would they have done this to him, why they _all_ wanted him under their power, even Lionel he feared wanted something from him.

They had obviously bound him to the bed, taken his glasses and removed his normal clothes, putting him in a _hospital gown_ of all things and for all practical purposes, rendering him blind, all so they could imprison him.

They were his captors now and they were going to try to _break_ him. They were going to try to _de-humanize_ him to the point he would cooperate and give them whatever they wanted from him. Well, he had _news_ for them…

John watched nervously, he had seen the wheels turning behind those bloodshot eyes; he could _sense_ something in the air but he hadn’t quite prepared himself for the vehement hatred in the words that next came from his partner’s mouth.

Harold turned on John aggressively and tugged at his wrist restraint, “Why am I being restrained like a common criminal?” he asked spitefully.

He wasn’t going to play their games; he would _not_ cooperate under any circumstances. And maybe… just maybe, if he played his cards right, he could convince one of them to finish the job he started and end him themselves. _‘With Miss Shaw’s disposition, it shouldn’t require much provocation on his part.’_

Harold didn’t give John any chance to respond. “Surely I’m not that much of a threat to you, Mister Reese,” he sneered, “Or Miss Shaw, come to that.”

John narrowed his eyes at his unreasonable partner and shook his head in disbelief. “You’re bound to that bed so you don’t hurt yourself, Finch.”

“Ha!” Harold scoffed, “You expect me to believe that?” he sneered and reached for the IV in his arm and before John knew what was happening Harold tore it out.

John stood up quickly, the clean garments in his lap falling to the floor. He stared at the prick of blood trickling from the sight of the needle insertion. He made no move to go near his out of control partner as an alarm from the medical array sounded loudly in his ears.

Harold started at the buckles on his wrist and John was so taken by surprise at the turn of events, that he didn’t know what to do for a long moment. He shook himself from his stupor, “Stop now, Harold, or I’ll have to stop you myself. You’re being paranoid and there’s no damn reason for it!”

Harold continued at the clasps, ignoring John’s assertion entirely, almost done with the restraint and almost getting his arm free.

John tapped his ear piece, “Shaw, I’m going to have to sedate him. He’s out of control.”

Harold leered up at him angrily, barely able to contain himself as John plunged the needle in his arm, dispensing the tranquilizer.

John watched the expression on Harold’s face change from rage to incredulity as he immediately sagged against the bed, out cold. Feeling his own hot tears running down his face. He heard the door opening behind him and Shaw come to stand next to him. “I couldn’t… he was, he wouldn’t listen.” He stammered remorsefully.  

“You did what you had to, Reese,” Shaw replied justifiably. “I told you what to expect. Was I right?”

John nodded numbly, still staring down at the unconscious heap of irrationality on the bed. “He thinks we’re out to get him or something.” John sank back down in his chair, “How could he think that?” he asked dazedly, “How could he think that I would…”

Shaw went about reaffixing the restraint cuff, getting the IV back in, and getting Harold cleaned up while John stared off into the distance silently. “It’s probably not going to get much better anytime soon, you know,” she reiterated. “You did what was best for everyone concerned. Don’t beat yourself up over it too much."

“Are you fucking kidding me, Shaw?” John replied crossly, “Don’t beat myself up over it? I just did what I had to do?” John stood up angrily and made for the door. He turned on his heels and gave one last parting shot, vindictively, “Try telling that to him!” he barked and pulled the door shut tight behind him.

Shaw held her tongue. Though it was difficult not going after him and responding to John’s heated outburst. She stood over Harold, unconscious and oblivious to the world around him right now, and looked down at him. “You dumb ass,” she sighed irritably, shaking her head and applying a restraint to Harold’s other arm now as well. “Look what you’re doing to him.” She finished her task and went to the monitor in the corner of the room.

On the screen there was a single word displayed. ‘ _PATIENCE’_ it read concisely. Shaw scoffed, “Yeah, you try that with these two.” She remarked and cleared the letters to begin checking the next course of action in Harold’s recovery.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold is still out of control as his body is craving what it needs and he's fighting against everything being done to him.

 

It was evening when Root and Lionel got back to the safe house.

They had worked well together and were excited to share the news of success they’d had with the latest number. But when they let themselves inside the house, it was dark and they found John sitting morosely in silhouette by the window in the main room.

“What’s going on?” Root asked apprehensively while Fusco found the switch and turned the lights on.

John looked up at them, “Did you find the number?” he asked sedately, ignoring the obvious concern from the two of them.

“Yes as a matter of fact,” Root offered cheerfully. “It was cut and dry. Lionel here stopped the would-be killer and sent him and his accomplice to jail, all tied up and giftwrapped.”

“Yeah, it was easy. She did real good with the info,” Lionel added. “The professor would’ve been proud.”

John scoffed, “Finch doesn’t care about anything right now,” he said resigned. “In fact he couldn’t care less about _anything_ on the planet _._ ”

“What does that mean?” Root asked worriedly.

John took a deep breath and moved his gaze back outside, through the large front windows of the house. There were lights across the way, illuminating the streets and surrounding buildings but all he could see was the darkness. “He’s not the man we all know anymore. He’s so far buried under a pile of suspicion and anger... I’m surprised he hasn’t suffocated.”

Root looked at Lionel nervously then turned to John. “We just have to be strong,” she said sympathetically and noticed Bear laying small and quiet, curled up in his bed in the corner of the room.

John didn’t answer; he was reflecting on everything that had happened when they’d found his partner and all the things that had already gone sideways with him since.

“I’ll go see if there’s anything I can do to help Shaw,” Root said and looked at Lionel as she walked past him. “Do what you can,” she whispered and called for Bear to follow her.

Bear got up hesitantly but did as he was beckoned to do and slowly lumbered behind Root into the back.

Lionel knew from experience what must have happened to John at some point while he and Root were out taking care of the number.

He could tell that the former op had evidently borne the brunt of something unpleasant from their ailing leader, “Look John,” he began intently, “The man’s spirit is broken and he’s gonna try and do anything he can think of to tear us all down and push us away, especially _you_. He’s not gonna be able to control himself.

“He’s sick and he’s gonna attack you as hard as he can so that you get pissed off enough to walk out on him. That’s exactly what he wants right now.” John looked over at Lionel as he went on fervently, “He wants everyone around to leave him and it’s gonna hurt us all to hear the stuff coming out of him, but you just have to shut your emotions off and remember that it’s not him that’s doin the attacking.

“It’s the alcohol and the drugs his body is craving right now doin the hurting, and the man we all know him to be is  _not_  gonna have any say in what comes out of his mouth. His brain is down for the count right now and until he gets past the first stages of detox, none of us can take anything he says personal.”

John couldn’t help but smile a little at his burly friend’s monologue and his sage advice. “How’d you get so smart all of a sudden, Lionel?”

Fusco chuckled, “Heh, I’ve always been smart, tough guy. You’ve just been too blind to see it.”

Suddenly Root yelled from the doorway at the back room, “John, we need your help in here now!” She called out to him earnestly.

John and Lionel ran towards the room where they could hear Harold raving like a lunatic. They both stopped short at the doorway, shocked by the scene inside.

Harold was a chaotic mess, blurting, “I lost myself, I don’t know who I am and I...,” he wailed frantically, “I’m going mad, I…” he gasped suddenly and tried to fold in on himself as severe cramping in his abdomen stalled the words in his throat momentarily, “ _Oh god!”_ he moaned and writhed as best he could, pulling at the straps around his wrists violently, uncontrollably, “ _God_   _it_   _hurts_ … _please_ , make it stop…” He wept openly now, unable to do anything to relieve the agony in his midsection. “Release me!” he cried angrily, “For god’s sake… let me out of these restraints!” Sweat was beading and running down his face and neck, saturating the thin garment he wore, trickling down his chest and back, soaking into the sheets beneath him. The IV that was stuck into his inner arm was dangling precariously, only being held in by two pieces of tape that were ready to peel away from the moisture on his arms.

“Shaw!” John barked and hurried to Harold’s side, “Why aren’t you doing something!” he demanded and started to unstrap Finch’s right wrist.

“John, don’t!” Shaw exclaimed but it was too late. Harold had John’s shirt fisted in his grasp at the collar, pulling his upper body towards him with all his might. “Let me go, god damn you!” Harold snarled at John furiously while Shaw tried to get his hand to loosen up. Then, suddenly, without any warning, Harold’s body went rigid and stiff and fell heavily back against the bed. “Christ. He’s seizing. Get away from him, give him some room.” 

Bear whined and barked out with anxiety from the corner as the electricity and commotion inside the room hit a fevered pitch. Lionel rushed over and crouched down next to him and put his arms around his shoulders, trying to calm the poor animal down. “Shh, it’s okay buddy.” He rubbed Bear’s taut muscles down and tried soothing him even though he was anything but calm himself. “It’ll be okay…”

Root stood well away from them all, transfixed by the horrible spectacle and weeping quietly while everyone else in the room stared helplessly at the poor wretch quaking and shuddering on the bed.

It was torture for them all to have to stand there and do nothing but watch their friend and leader go through the agony of paroxysms wracking his abused frame for what seemed like forever.

When Harold’s body finally began to relax, Shaw took control of the situation expeditiously by administering Ativan to try and forestall anymore seizures that might well occur again while his system was gradually being detoxified, as well as a sedative to try to help Harold sleep for a while without interruption.

“John,” Shaw glared at him. “You can’t do that again until he’s under control psychologically,” she chastised him tersely.

John was breathing heavily, he turned and glared at her in return. “Fuck you, Shaw,” he retorted spitefully.

“Look… all of you listen to me right now,” Shaw demanded.

She decided to let John’s little jab at her go. She was a sociopath sure, but that didn’t mean she didn’t understand what he must be going through having to do what they were having to do to Harold. She could forgive him in this instance but that wouldn’t always be the case.

“I don’t want to restrain him any more than any of you.” She looked at them each in turn, “But for now, Harold is combative. He’s not listening to reason and as hard as it is to imagine he could be a danger to any one of us, he’s damn well a danger to himself and you have to accept that for the time being.”

They all remained quiet and stared at Harold miserably. Each one of them having their own despairing thoughts of the situation going through their heads.

“Is that understood?” Shaw asked again.

Root wiped her eyes and walked over to the bed. Looking down at Harold she took his hand in hers, “We’ll do what we have to do to get him back,” she sniffled. “She will too, Harry…” Root squeezed the warm appendage and walked out of the room.

“What happens next?” John asked sullenly.

“The next stage of treatment will be determined by the Machine.” She answered coolly.

John turned on her and stared in disbelief.

“It’s shown nothing but exactly the right thing to do in every circumstance so far,” she offered. “Harold is the Machine’s father, John, like it or not. It only wants him to live and get well again.”

Lionel stood up and walked to the bedside quietly with Bear in step beside him. He could feel John’s grief tangibly and understood what he was going through.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again he looked down at his sick partner and nodded, “So be it,” he said, “for now…” and he too walked out of the room.


	20. Chapter 20

 

Someone is humming. A lovely, feminine sound that’s somehow familiar to his ears. Her voice is soothing; the cadence calming in some accustomed way from a time he can’t quite remember.

He’s compelled to see her. He has to be certain the voice belongs to who he thinks it does, to the beloved woman he loves. But he’s only able to open his eyes for an instant before the sliver of light overwhelms him, blinding with its intensity. He winces and shuts them again quickly, gasping from the pain that suddenly takes hold.

His entire body and mind hurt and he can’t seem to stop himself from focusing on the agony even with the overpowering desire to see her. The pain is penetrating and piercing; he whimpers at a sudden lance through his head and he can’t stop himself, he cries out from the sheer stabbing sensation of it.

“Shhh, it’s alright sweetheart. You’re okay.” She speaks to him from above and he suddenly he’s sure, he knows with complete certainty, just as well as he knows his own true name who the sweet voice belongs to.

There’s no doubt in his mind now and suddenly he feels a warm and gentle pressure against his nape.

He feels the solidity and the warmth of her body beneath his cheek,  _‘I must have my head on her lap,’_ he thinks. For a moment of transcendental bliss, the pain is gone, replaced by the need… no, the dire and absolute necessity to see his true love’s beautiful face.

 _“Grace?”_ he whispers, he can hear the unsteadiness and uncertainty in his own voice, _“Grace… please let me see_ _you. I must see you.”_ He implores her softly _._

“Just stay still, my darling. Don’t open your eyes,” she replies. “Just rest your weary head and let me comfort you awhile.” She’s stroking his hair tenderly, running her fingers through the soft peaks. Her fingers move to touch and caress his face so lovingly he wants to cry from the relief and longed for happiness he feels in her touch.

It’s almost too much to bear, too tender an emotion, it seems so real but he knows it’s impossible. It can’t truly be happening. It’s just a dream and he’ll never see her in reality ever again. “ _Please, let me see your_ _precious face, my love_ …” he pleads again with the phantom delusion, “ _Just once more so I can rest..._ ”

He tries to sit up but feels paralyzed by Grace’s hands that have now gone rough and fixed, pushing hard against his shoulders. The pressure has become insistent and cruel and he can feel her fingernails digging into his flesh.

He tries to open his eyes again but it’s no use, it’s as if sand has been thrown into them and again he’s forced to squeeze them tight against the stinging onslaught. _“Grace, what are … why are you doing this to me?”_ he asks her anxiously and struggles to move out from under the strong hands, unyielding and forcing him down hard, pressing against both shoulders now. She's pinning him hard against something metal, he thinks. It’s cold on his back and the force against his bones hurts terribly.

He doesn’t understand anything that’s happening and he can’t see; it’s far too painful to try again. _“Please…Grace, tell me… why are you doing this?”_ He struggles with all his might and feels something wet and warm trickling down his shoulders. His skin is sticky against the surface of whatever he’s lying on as he struggles ineffectively and realizes that she must have drawn blood with her nails, _“Why Grace… why won’t you speak to me?”_ he pleads.

He desperately wants to move, to get up and away from the pain and horror of what’s happening. He wants to wake up but suddenly thinks that maybe what he’s experiencing is hell and he’s paved his way here by what he’s done, that he’s condemned his soul to this cruel and accursed purgatory for all time. _“Oh God, please, no... don’t let this be my eternal judgement… please...”_

_*************_

John watched Harold twitch and jerk in response to whatever he was dreaming of. He wondered if he should try and wake him but from what Shaw had said he’s probably too far under sedation to emerge coherently.

But he can hardly stand to see him like this and his breathing has become short and clipped in his sleep, far too shallow for John’s liking. He makes the decision that something’s not right and he can’t stand the thought of that possibility. He won’t take the chance that Harold is having some kind of unexpected side effect from everything his body is still being put through.

He stood up and put his hand on Harold’s shoulder and shook it gently, “Finch… Harold, can you wake up for me?” Then a sudden hitching inhalation of breath and an unconscious sob resonates from Harold’s throat and he goes still and quiet under John’s touch.

He watches him for a few seconds and decides that he’ll leave his exhausted partner undisturbed for now since he no longer seems to be in distress.

So John sat at his side and prayed that when he next comes to, Harold will be more reasonable and less combative. He stared at the wan, unconscious figure in the huge bed, a shell of the man he knew and cared for so deeply. He hardly recognizes him now, so thin and unshaven and unkempt as he is.

John stroked Bear’s head absently. The canine had been so despondent and depressed the last few hours as Harold laid so still and silent, he was starting to become really worried about him. John hoped that when Harold woke up and saw Bear, maybe he would take some comfort from his being there and that the animal would feel better in return. He hoped so anyway. 

John sat quietly then suddenly remembered the envelope Root had given him back at the library, before they had found his anguished partner so close to death. He took it from his inside coat pocket and looked down at his name uncharacteristically scrawled on the outside and wondered if he dare read it right now or whether to wait. The sloppiness of Harold's usual elegant handwriting tells him that it was written hastily, maybe as an afterthought.

He looked over at Harold again, unmoving, silent, and so fragile in appearance that John’s heart ached for him. His decision made, he would wait to read the letter or maybe not even read it at all.

He didn’t even want to contemplate what it said right now, not while things were already so precarious with his own emotions.

No, he had to be as strong as possible, he wouldn’t chance the possibility that Harold’s written words would either drive him to tears or put him into a rage. He sat forward in his chair to look at his miserable partner in the face and began to pour his heart out to the oblivious man.


	21. Chapter 21

 

Harold was still restrained by both wrists and exuded misery through every pore of his abused body. John continued to stare at his gaunt, unconscious partner for a long moment and then he began.

“I know how proud you are Finch, and how stubborn you can be. ” he said quietly. “And I’ve seen how infuriatingly independent you can be too... even at the cost of your own welfare sometimes.”

John thought back to the time just before Mark Snow and his partner Evans had nearly managed to take him out permanently by putting two bullets in him. Earlier that same day, Finch had almost been blown to bits after he’d tried to warn a man that there was a bomb near his car. Instead of getting away from the explosion that in the long run had ended up obliterating the guy and his vehicle, Harold tried to intervene and ran towards the danger and was blown off his feet by the concussion of the blast for his trouble.

If he’d been any closer to the explosion, he would have been killed instead of being able to limp away with his life intact.

For John, that day had marked the beginning of a shift in their relationship. Not only did Harold come to his rescue when he’d been warned to stay away and not risk his own life but he’d seen just how far his partner was willing to go to save someone else’s… someone he didn’t even know.

John huffed in exasperation at the memory and leaned back in his chair. He stared at his partner, lying there looking like death warmed over, and knew that Harold would never ask anyone to help him.

Harold would see it as a weakness and because of that he’d die before he would ask it for himself.

“But you won’t have to _ask_ ,” John spoke up, finishing his thought aloud. He shook his head in frustration and started again, “You need to know that I will do whatever is in my power to be there for you when you stumble, because you will stumble, Finch. But I’ll be there and to pick you up when you do. I’ll carry you. Hell I’ll even drag you if that’s what you need but you will not give up on me…” he choked out, “and I won’t let you give up on yourself.” 

Bear sat up from lying beside John and put his muzzle across his knee while John stroked his head absently. He stared off into the distance for a long moment, lost in thought. “You have to understand…” he said quietly. “This is what you made me… _you_ are the one responsible for who I am... right here, right now. You made me into a good man again, Finch and believe it or not, I never thought I’d ever be able to say that about myself after the agency shaped and molded me into their killer.” John closed his eyes and gathered himself before starting again. “I’m a good man…” he looked back at Harold, “because of you.” 

He sat forward again and covered Harold’s hand with his own, squeezing the motionless appendage tenderly and continued. “I’m kinda glad you’re not hearing me right now because I know you’d want to argue the point and try to convince me that I was always a good man… but you’d be wrong. You only  _think_  you know exactly everything about me.”

“I’m vowing right now that I will not let you do this.” John swallowed the lump in his throat, “I swear that I will get you through this and restore you back to the man I know you to be.” He took a deep breath…

“Oh, Finch… how could I let it happen?” he said despondently. “How could I have missed the signs?”

Bear whined. He could feel John’s inner turmoil and nuzzled his hand sympathetically. “I know boy,” John consoled the animal. “You feel it too don’t you?”

Harold’s entire body suddenly shivered violently and his eyes flew open. Pain overwhelmed him and stole the breath from his lungs. He ground his teeth hard against the onslaught. His body felt electric; every nerve ending firing cruelly, stinging unbearably. Then he thought he could vaguely heard John’s voice in his periphery. “Please, make it stop…” he gasped over and over again and tried to curl into himself, pulling frantically against the straps. _“Please…!”_

“Finch!” John shot up from his chair, “Harold, I’m here.” John opened the door and called out for Shaw as Harold writhed uncontrollably in the bed. He was fighting so hard against the restraints he was bruising and abrading his wrists.

Bear whined anxiously, concerned with what was happening, he trotted over to his doggie bed and laid on top of it, watching the scene play out restlessly.

“Harold, you’re hurting yourself!” John raised his voice over the commotion Harold was making while he struggled in vain to get loose. “Just stop for a minute.” John saw the raw scraping of the tender skin of Harold’s wrists and winced in sympathy.

He was sure at this point he must be damaging the metal pins and plates in his body from all the torque he was putting on them but he couldn’t get through to his out of control partner. “Calm down, Finch!” John tried to hold Harold’s shoulders still but it was no use.

“Please unstrap me, John!” Tears of pain streamed down his face as he begged. “Let me up… _please!”_

John was beside himself when Shaw and Root came running in the room. Shaw immediately went over to the computer monitor to see what the Machine suggested they do.

“Listen, Finch, just listen,” John urged his partner frantically. “If you don’t calm yourself down, Shaw is going to have to give you something to calm you down. So stop fighting and I’ll take the straps off. I promise.”

“I can’t… it hurts, John. I can’t…” The energy was draining out of him while the sweat poured down his face.

Root came back from the sink with a cool cloth to wipe Harold’s fevered brow, “Let me help you, Harry. Please be still.”

Harold’s last reserve of energy was finally spent and he stopped struggling for the most part, but for an involuntary sporadic kick of his injured leg.

He closed his eyes and turned away from them as much as he was able and sobbed quietly in despair. ‘ _Why couldn’t they just leave me be?’_

Shaw came over with a syringe in her hand and John looked at her heatedly. Shaking her head, she got the picture and put the needle away.

“We’ll be back in a few minutes, Finch,” Shaw walked away and Root followed her to the door somberly. She looked at John sympathetically and Shaw slapped her leg, “Hier Bear,” She called and Bear stood up slowly and lumbered lethargically behind the two women, glancing morosely at what was happening at Harold's bedside all the while until the door was closed behind them.

“Harold?” John tried hesitantly, while his partner quieted his despair but still wasn’t looking at him. “Do you mind if I stay awhile?”

Harold finally turned toward John and looked deeply into his eyes before pleading with him once again, “Please… _please,_ take these straps off me.”

Harold’s broken entreaty made his heart clench. Without another word, John immediately went about removing both restraints from Harold's wrists.


	22. Chapter 22

Lionel stood up from the couch as the women made their way back to the living room. “How’s he doin?” he asked superfluously. He already knew the answer by the look on their faces. Hell even Bear showed just how miserable the situation was in the way he carried himself… the poor fella.

Root looked at him gloomily and shook her head. “Not good, I’m afraid.” She sat at one end of the couch while Shaw, not even bothering to spare Lionel a glance, walked directly over to the bar and rummaged through the liquor cabinet before finally settling on a bottle of 25 yr. old Lagavulin.

“He’s fucked Lionel,” she stated bluntly and poured herself a glass of the aromatically pungent scotch.

“Ya know, your bedside manner needs work,” he replied irritably.

“Not my thing. I call it like I see it, always have.” She downed two fingers of the pricy single malt whiskey and grimaced then poured herself another. “Hey?” She waved the bottle in the air and asked Root, “You want some?”

“No way. I can smell it from over here.” Root crinkled her nose in disgust, “But if there’s a nice bourbon over there…” the suggestion hung in the air for a second before Shaw scoffed indignantly and pulled another bottle from the cabinet along with a glass. She brought it over to where her colleagues sat.

She stood and glared at Lionel until he moved his legs to the side and she swiftly plopped down between the two. “There’s other places to sit, ya know,” he remarked irritably but sat there just the same, unwilling to move strictly on principle.

Shaw handed the bottle of bourbon and the empty glass to Root and sat forward to set her own glass on the table. Not a word was said for a few moments time until Lionel finally spoke up again. _“So?”_ he asked again, hoping for a different answer.

“So,” Root cut in and sighed. “He’s still raging and can’t accept the fact that we stepped in and stopped him from what he had already put into motion,” she said as she shook her head in exasperation. “He hates the fact that we’re all trying like hell to help him.”

“He doesn’t want help… that’s the point.” Shaw added dispassionately, “He wants to feel sorry for himself like a baby and die. That’s what he wants his endgame to be, death.” she sneered contemptuously. “I hate to say it people, but he’s going to have to be watched like a hawk until he accepts the fact that none of us are going stand around and let him try to kill himself… _again_ ,” she added sarcastically.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Lionel spoke up. “It’s what everyone in his shoes wants at first. It’s already hell for all of us right now dealing with what’s going on and it’s probably only get worse before it gets any better,” he said. “But unless I miss my guess, the big guy is gonna get attacked way more than any of us will. So we’re gonna have to keep him propped up. He’s gonna take the brunt of the hostility because he’s the one that Finch feels closest to.

“The hate and discontent that’s gonna come out of the professors mouth will be mostly directed at him, we’ve already seen it, so John’s gonna need all the support we can give _him_ through this nightmare too.”

“Well, I for one, am not going to take Harold’s shit and I don’t think anyone else should either,” Shaw interjected. “He doesn’t need to be coddled and placated or tiptoed around. He needs a swift kick in the ass.”

Root and Lionel looked at her uneasily, “What?” she remarked, annoyed. “I’m just sayin that someone is going to have to play the hardass and that’s right up my alley,” she scoffed.

“You ain’t kiddin there,” Fusco retorted.

“I think the three of us should make a pact right now,” Root announced. “Harold shouldn’t be pampered by anyone, and if he needs tough love then that’s what he’ll get…” She leaned forward and poured herself a glass of bourbon and raised it, “Agreed?” she asked expectantly.

Shaw raised her glass and Lionel picked up his water bottle, “Agreed,” they all said in unison. They touched their drinks together, and all took a swig.

Bear lumbered over to the couch and Fusco sat forward to pet him. “Hey there fella,” he said to the downcast animal. “How long’s he been like this?” he asked Shaw. “I ain’t never seen him so lethargic and depressed. Is he sick or something?”

Shaw leaned over to him and rubbed his ears too, “Yeah,” she scoffed, “Or something.”

“Ever since Harold’s been…” Root didn’t know exactly how to put it into terms, “well since he hasn’t been himself, Bear hasn’t been eating right.”

“He looks like he’s lost some weight.” Lionel noticed. “And there’s no pep in his step anymore.”

“And something has to be done about it,” Shaw announced heatedly and stood up. “Maybe Harold doesn’t give a shit about anyone of us right now but maybe Bear here is our ace in the hole.” She walked back towards the bar and poured some water into a bowl while Root and Lionel gave Bear some love and attention.

“When the time comes, Bear will do his part,” Shaw announced and set the bowl down next to him. The dog just looked at the water, uninterested. “Come on handsome, you gotta stay hydrated,” Shaw encouraged him gently. Bear sniffed at the bowl and took a few swipes with his tongue but that was all, “Good boy,” she praised him. “Well it’s better than nothing,” she said and stood up.

“Lionel?” Shaw grinned wickedly at the burly detective, “How about you go get us some pizza?”

“What am I, your delivery boy now?” he derided.

Root smiled at him too and added, “Bear likes pizza too, don’t you boy?” She rubbed the dog’s ears affectionately.

Lionel stood up in mock annoyance, “Aright, but I’m doin it for _him_ ,” he said and patted Bear’s flank. “Since you two know him so well, you order it and I’ll go out and pick it up… but I ain’t doin it every time, so don’t get used to it.”

“Sure thing, Lionel. I’ll call it in to Pomodoro’s right away,” Shaw said eagerly and then added, “And make it snappy. I’m hungry.”

*************

John finished letting Harold out of his wrist restraints and stood over him utterly regretful and ashamed that they’d ever had to do it to him in the first place.

Harold’s eyes remained closed the whole time, his head was turned away, not willing to look at John. He was angry, resentful, and so utterly despondent that he wanted so much to be free of every emotion he could hardly stand it. Added to that, every part of his body seemed to hurt and he was so nauseous he wondered how it was that he wasn’t throwing his guts up right now.

He was disoriented, mentally, and physically hobbled which made the contemplation of death once again all the more appealing. He hated this; he despised feeling as he does now. He was useless to himself, but more importantly, to anyone else. He wanted it to end.

“Finch…?” John had to know that his partner was okay or as alright at the moment that he could be given the circumstances, but Finch refused to acknowledge him. He sought to make eye contact but when Harold finally blinked his eyes open, they were glassy and unfocused and he only stared directly above him seemingly in a fog.

Harold lay there silently, willfully not hearing anything being said. He was taking in the swirled pattern of the off-white colored paint on the ceiling. He was not really able to think of anything other than how horrible he felt in mind and body and wanting everything that accumulated over the last few months to have never happened. But it was way too late for that now and the thought of living on in this way, this thing that he’d done to himself, brought on himself, was an abhorrent idea. He craved release from it all.

John could only watch the wheels turning behind his partner’s dazed, haunted eyes for just so long before he had to reach out to let him know he wasn’t alone in all this. He had to try and help in some small way.

He laid his hand on his Harold’s forearm, just a ghost of a touch. Harold flinched away violently and impulsively as if he’d been burned, unable to stop the reflex of drawing his hand to his chest.

John was devastated by the adverse reaction. As he stood beside the bed, he hoped like hell he wasn't going to be sorry for releasing Harold from his restraints. He held his breath and waited nervously for his partner's next move. 

**Author's Note:**

> Does it suck? Comments are awesome AND motivating and always appreciated. Thanks to everyone that gives this thing a shot!


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